Decadence
by Taila-Tai
Summary: It was only logical. She was a doctor; so she knew everything about keeping his body capable and alive. And with his new mission - self-given mission - of hunting down his handlers and their lackeys, there was bound to be injuries to his person. So he was bound to have use for her, right? Right. Now... To hide her from Steve... (Bucky/OFC Post!CATWS)
1. Prologue

_So tired..._

Groaning as he stumbled, the dark haired man collided with a nearby wall, a metallic clang echoing through the dark street after the union. His body was refusing to co-operate. The muscles already weakened from the long journey he'd forced it to trek and his limbs were beginning to fail him; giving out or trembling with use.

He almost snarled at the prospect, irritated by his own bodily weaknesses. He'd been trained _not_ to hurt, but now all he could feel was the pain radiating from every muscle and the stinging agony each gash on his body bled out to his nerves. He couldn't help but be aware of the screaming in his head, and the conflict behind his eyes, but he fought _not to be._

He couldn't let it affect him. He couldn't let the past few days toy with his mind any longer, or they'd wipe him – like they'd done so many times before. He retained enough to know that being wiped wasn't something he wanted, no matter how obediently he climbed onto the chair.

 **Wipe him and start again.**

Shaking his head to clear the memory, the lean man used the only muscle that would obey him – the strong silver forcing his body away from brick and back onto its own feet. He staggered; stomach churning before he managed a few wobbly steps forward, bile rising in his throat from the movement.

 _Keep moving soldier,_ he commanded his mind, hating when it shrunk back in cowardice. It knew what came next. He'd gotten away from the scene and from the blonde man who always had warmth in his eyes – now, now all he had to do was care for the wounds.

And what a plentiful supply he had of those.

Grunting, blue eyes lifted and scoped out the area, ensuring he was alone before he slumped against the wall _yet again._ Blood dripped from the tips of his fingers, creating a rhythmic beat with every drop that hit the ground. It was a haunting melody but it was one he knew well, and with every drip he could feel his strength waning.

 _Find a doctor. Heal yourself. Continue moving._

 _Find a doctor. Heal yourself._

 _Find a doctor._

With new determination, he stood again, strong and tall without human weaknesses to hold him back. He had a mission, something to give him the strength he needed to continue and he was going to make use of it. Stumbling awkwardly, quite like a new born colt, he tried to gather his bearings once again, shaking his head to clear the last remnants of restraint that lingered.

He needed a doctor, and one that would stay quiet – not that they would be able to tell anyone about him if they had a bullet through their eye. Snorting in what could have been amusement, the man stalked forward, still uncertain but not falling against the nearest surface like he had before.

He needed a doctor, and he was in the middle of Washington. It would be almost too easy to find one.


	2. The meeting of the iron wills

The room was black; it's only illumination coming from the microwave tucked away in the corner and the occasional flash of light from a car's high beams. With every passing vehicle, the modest kitchen would shift and swarm with shadows as light danced through it, every dark corner ruined by the shine.

And the bright white managed to destroy not only the void, but the long figure reclining against the marble counter as well. "Ah, shit," the woman hissed, hiding her eyes with a cleverly placed hand. "It's two o'clock in the morning, go the hell to sleep already."

 _Huh, good idea. So why are you up again?_

Deciding to pretend she hadn't heard the traitorous voice echoing in her head, she only flinched as the microwaves timer chimed too loudly in the silence; signalling it was finished with its latest task. Turning around, she tucked the dressing gown tighter around her body and hushed her mind before reaching up to open the metal monster, hands fishing in for the warmed plate.

Only to regret it about three fifths of second later.

"Ow, ow, _ow,_ " she whimpered, dropping the ceramic on the counter with a loud _clang_. She barely resisted the urge to glare at the bowl in question, and instead moved to rinse her fingers under cold water, muttering curses all the while. It can't have been her day – _night_ – if she was burning herself on bloody pasta.

Snorting, she timidly picked up the bowl – hands safely wrapped in a tea towel – and dumped it at the dining table, allowing her own tired body to fall into the nearest chair after it. "Burn your mouth, and you're dead to me," she warned her own body, forking some of the steaming food up and forcing it past her lips. Her stomach churned at the onslaught, and yes, her tongue admittedly tingled with what could have been a burning sensation – but she continued to go through the notions of chewing and tasting before swallowing the mouthful.

A sigh slipped past her reddening lips, but she repeated the actions with forced determination. _Chew. Taste. Swallow._

It was an endless cycle of rinse and repeat, and her mind labelled it as dull within a few seconds, rendering her efforts mute. Letting the fork fall back to the bowl with a clatter, she slumped back against the harsh wood holding her up, eyes flickering over to the blind covered windows.

She was exhausted, her eyes burning, but her mind was too awake to even contemplate sleep. That was what she couldn't help but hate about surgery the most; not the fact that it tired her out, but the fact that it only tired out her _body_ while somehow managing to make her mind full of energy. It was a little like a caffeine hit, only her body crashed long before her head did…

" **Back door open."**

 _Back door is what now?_ Whiskey orbs flitted up, confused shock painting the irises a darker colour as they shot to the corner of the room. The feminine voice her house had adopted bounced about in her head, and absently she wondered when she'd left the real world and fell into the one of horror movies and pathetically named bad guys.

 _Lookin' at you 'Paranormal Activity.'_

Pushing to her feet, she licked her lips nervously; staring at the archway that would lead through to the washhouse and then to the back entrance of her home. If the rear door really _was_ open, then whoever had broken in would be striding through there within the next few seconds…

Nothing.

"House, I swear to god, you better not be messing with me," she muttered, shakily stepping around the wooden monster of a dining table. There was nothing to indicate that someone actually had gotten in – no creaking of doors or the soft padding of feet on carpet – and with every silent second, she felt fear diminish a little more.

Her house was _totally_ messing with her.

Her glare was enough to burn through metal as she wandered down the darkened corridor, feet lightly hopping down the short flight of stairs that led to the golden oak door. Only to find that it was open, a breeze letting a few leaves flutter through.

Well, _fuc –_

"Alright," she whispered, swallowing back the frightened whimper that bubbled up her throat. "The door opened. By itself. Without any assistance whatsoever by any hands skilled at lock-picking." It sounded like complete and utter bullshit, even to her ears, but she ignored the doubt and shot forward; slamming the door closed and forcing the lock back in place. Letting out a shallow breath of relief, she leant against the barricade. "See? We're totally fine. No machete wielding maniac today."

Feeling oddly proud of her own courage, she smiled at the shadows dancing on the walls, pushing from the door and starting forward again. As the adrenaline left her system, her shoulders sagged forward and her smile gained a genuine edge. Maybe she could sleep now, if she just closed her eyes and – _holy shit_

Any fear she'd thought had left her system came flooding back with a raging vengeance, forcing her muscles to a standstill and her mind to go quiet. A car had passed by her house – again? Did none of her neighbours know what sleep was? – and its headlights had bathed her kitchen in light and shown the withering shadows.

The withering shadows that revealed the form of a human being.

Her eyes had only seen the figure for a split second; not enough to discern anything other than the fact that _someone was in her bloody house and_ – wait, how the hell had they got past her without her noticing?

The indecision on her part cost precious time, and with the next flash of a car's lights – no comment neighbourhood – she noted the figure had moved; the shadow larger as its owner got closer. They were boxing her in. Swallowing back any more hesitation, she tucked her hand into the breast of her robe, curving her palm in and creating the false shape of a gun with her pointer and ring fingers.

Before the next car could do any more damage, she took advantage of the momentary darkness and flitted through the archway and into the nearest corner. "I have a gun," she breathed out, pressing her hand against the material of her dressing gown to show the rough shape of a weapon. She could only hope the robber was stupid enough to fall for it.

The room remained silent and dark, and idly she wondered if her hope wasn't well founded when another streak of light interrupted the shadows. She could see her guest clearly now, his hulking figure hiding the glow from the microwaves electric time display and it made her stomach clench uncomfortably. He could easily overtake her, with one of his arms managing to look bigger than both hers put together and the thought was anything _but_ comforting.

She was so boned.

The room fell into darkness again, and her free hand scrambled for the light switch; heart dropping when she realised she was on the wrong side of the doorway. She could hear footsteps, rapid ones, and knew the man was heading for her. She just had to get to the other side and the…

The kitchen flooded with light. _The light switch._

The man was almost on her, menacingly huge and dark even in the lit room. On instinct, both her hands came up to stop his approach, left hand still curled into the innocent shape of a gun.

Both pairs of eyes snapped to the faux weapon.

Not a foot from her, the man's chest rumbled in what could have been amusement. "Mine's bigger," he murmured, voice rough and low, like he'd been weeks without water. While most of her mind caught onto the fact that she'd missed the opportunity to make an innuendo – _god damn it_ – the rational part focused on the fact that there was now a cold, painful grip around her left wrist.

"Ah," she cried out weakly, feet trembling a little under her body and forcing her attacker to hold her up. "Let me go!"

The man made an annoyed sound, but didn't answer, instead only tugging harshly on her wrist. She recognized the gesture as a silent demand for her to hold her own weight, and complied, shakily managing to put her legs back under her body.

"P-please let me go?" she tried again, swallowing back another mournful sound. "I-I'm sorry, I j-just – you can have whatever you want, just _please_ let me go," she pleaded, pulling uselessly on her own arm. His grip was unforgiving, and with every hopeful tug she gave, he tightened it all the more.

"The writing on your fence," the man drawled. "Claims you're a doctor."

 _What?_

Her face must have shown her confusion, because he hefted her up and all but threw her against the counter beside him, not seeming to care when she yelped in pain. He took one step back and rolled his shoulders, ripping the sleeve of the dark over shirt he wore. The material was stained with crimson, already torn, and he grinded his teeth impatiently; forcing his face to remain impassive as he worked at getting it away from his body.

And whoa hello, _body_

Across from him the accused medical officer trembled, studying the way the intruder moved – and admittedly the way muscles shifted and worked under tanned skin. He had a grace she'd only seen in larger predators, and a haunted look she'd seen in her more _private_ clientele, and it all screamed at her to run. Run far away, and never look back.

She'd barely seen past his dark mop of hair however before her years of training forced her to look towards the red marring smooth skin. "Oh, you're hurt," she realised, reaching out before instantly taking back her hand. "Is that w-why you came here?"

The man grunted out an affirmative, and some of the fear – _some_ – drained again. She could deal with a wounded animal. She could totally do that. "Deal with it," he instructed.

Whiskey pools roamed over the deep gash on his upper arm, taking in torn flesh and dried blood. "I'm a plastic surgeon," she revealed quietly, shaking her head before huddling back into the counter. "I could fix your nose or remove a troublesome mole – but I can't deal with that. I'm s-sorry…"

Anger flashed in deep blue eyes, and the metallic sound of a blade grating against leather pounded through the silence. It seemed her guest was imploring her to re-think her decision. The cold metal had crept past the silk of her robe and was pressing against her navel, a silent threat as much as it was a show of power.

 _Machete wielding maniac it is…_

"But. But I s-suppose I could try? If you'd like," she stammered out, shrinking back from the tip of the knife against her stomach. "My private office is across the house. I don't tend to do my w-work in there though, only consultations…"

His hand bunched in the material above the blade and he yanked her closer, the grip decidedly weaker than his other hand. Her eyes shot down to the wound again, darkening in sympathy when blood oozed lazily from the gaping hole with every movement. There was bruising, a whole tonne if she was being honest, and the angle his arm settled at screamed that it had been dislocated and then badly reset.

She was going to need to pop it out again before she could set it properly, and he was going to _love_ her for that.

"Where?" he demanded, eyes narrowed and only a few inches from her own. They were a stunning shade of blue, and they followed her hand when she pointed through the open plan living room, letting her breathe out a sigh of relief as they found another target. It was like staring down the barrel of a gun. "Move."

Stumbling as he threw her weight forward, she barely stopped herself from falling face first into thick carpet, and hesitantly wandered forward, eyes peeking over her shoulder. Whoever he was walked with a sure gait, but there was pain pinching his brow with every step. _But no limp though._ His eyes shot to hers and instantly she dropped his gaze, looking back towards where she was walking with a shiver.

She hadn't been lying – she was a cosmetic surgeon, and an excellent one at that – but she hadn't exactly been telling the whole truth when she claimed she'd been unable to help. Before she'd been able to get her degree as a surgeon, she'd had to pass through medical school. And yeah, she _still_ wasn't sure if it had been a necessity for the career she was now neck deep in, but it had been one for her parents; so she'd gone through the extra years without so much as a peep.

Anyway, the point was – the point was that his shoulder was going to be easy. Well, at least the one he'd revealed to her was going to be. Unable to help it, she looked back again, lowering her chin so it appeared that she was staring at the ground. His other shoulder was still covered by wisps of black material, but the arm from what she could see was pure silver, roped together like different components.

Was the hell _was_ that? A glove? The shield, new and improved? Or just a stupid, childhood mistake he now had to live with?

Her musings paused when she realised she was staring at the darkly coloured door of her office. "It's just through here," she announced quietly, voice nothing more than a murmur as it carried back to her guest. The oaken door opened under a gentle push, and a plush carpet welcomed her bare feet as she entered, confidence rising ever so slightly at being in her natural environment.

So to speak…

There was a beautiful darkly carved desk that served as her place of work, and bookshelves lined the walls behind it, full to the brim with medical texts. It appeared cosy, warm, but the other half of the room was cold and sterile – an alabaster recliner acting as an examination table with a stainless sink and storage beside it. As she'd said; she didn't do her main work here, she had an office further in the city for that, but this was good enough for the smaller prep and exams.

Without prompting, the dark haired man – _hunk_ , her mind corrected because he was clearly no mere man – boosted his body onto the chair. "Is it just your shoulder then?" she asked carefully, slowly moving closer. He had no qualms against man handling her, but she was hesitant touch him.

He gave a short nod, dirty hair slapping against his cheeks.

"Okie dokie then," she breathed, nodding as well before she moved to scrub at her hands under the faucet. "I'll need to put you under; I should have the supplies here because the wound is rather – "

"No."

Pausing at the interruption, she tilted her head his way. "No?" she echoed, brow furrowing in the middle. "You actually _want_ to be awake? Do you know how much this is going to hurt, sir?" The last word slipped out before she could stop it, and the annoyed tick that mutilated his cheek showed her that she better be more careful with her tongue. "It would be best," she reasoned next.

"I don't want to be unconscious," the man stated firmly. "I can handle pain."

Pushing her hands into white gloves, she gave a short nod. "Sure you can," she muttered under her breath, moving closer and lifting both her hands. The stranger had leant back against the raised back of the chair, eyes glued to the ceiling in dismissal, so she gently pressed against the red skin, probing the area curiously.

It wasn't a life threatening wound. Yes, he'd lost more blood than she was comfortable with, but he wasn't going to die on her watch – or on anyone else's for that matter – which she labelled as _good_.

He didn't seem to be the forgiving type…

Humming in acknowledgement, she moved to grab the antibiotic and gauze. "So can I ask how this happened?" she questioned softly, pouring the copperish liquid onto the white cotton. It took little more than a second for the creamy colour to be stained.

"No," he answered instantly before a quieter; "Why?" followed.

She chuckled mirthlessly. "It's called making conversation," she quipped dryly, frowning as she wiped the surrounding area free of blood and infection. "And it looks very rough, ragged," she explained when he didn't reply. "I was wondering how you managed to do this to yourself. I would say knife fight, seeing as you're toting around a cheese knife on steroids, but a sharpened blade would've left a cleaner wound than this."

He studied her for a few seconds, eyes bright and knowing. "Debris," he answered shortly. "A broken shard of metal."

"How did you dislocate it then?" she demanded next, pretending not to notice the way his head snapped back to hers sharply. "You didn't reset it properly; may I just add."

Once again, his eyes roamed curiously over her features. "Then reset it. Properly," he commanded.

Sighing, she stopped working and offered him a tired glare. "Fine. But the wounds gonna start bleeding again," she grumbled, shaking her head. "Better that I do it now anyway, otherwise I'll probably tear up the stitches." Posturing herself against his side, she gripped his bicep with one hand, and pressed against his chest with the other. "This is going to hurt; you know? I have to dislocate it again."

"Can you?"

The simple question made her falter. _Did_ she have the strength to force his shoulder out of place again? Looking down to her noodle arms, she frowned, but didn't want to give up the opportunity to get back at him for earlier – read: the bruises on her back and wrist. "Probably not," she allowed, years of medical knowledge flooding behind her eyes. "But it's not all about strength."

"What's it about th – " The demand was cut short by a short lived gasp as the male took a sharp breath in. His free hand lifted to curl around his torn shoulder, eyes dark with pain and what was probably anger.

"It's about technique," she murmured, adopting an apologetic look. "I should've warned you, sorry."

The look he sent her screamed that _yes, she should've_. Throwing him a careful smile, she moved to grab his shoulder in hand again, this time showing as much tenderness as she could as she slammed it back into place. It was a hard move, but she managed and soon the tendons and bones were back as they should be.

Bending, she studied the bruising. "It should heal up okay," she decided, pursing her lips before backing away. Her stitching materials were still in their sterile casings. "Listen, I'm a cosmetic surgeon… Do you care how I suture the wound?"

"What does your profession have to do with how you stitch the wound? You're a doctor."

She frowned, looking back to him in annoyed confusion. "I'm a _cosmetic_ surgeon," she repeated. "I deal with making the rich look pretty. In simpler terms, I can do this quickly and as any other doctor would, or I can make an effort and avoid scarring or any avoidable damage to your skin."

His features took on a look of contemplation, a guarded edge taking over the blue hues of his eyes. "Take as long as you want," was all he replied with, face tilting upwards again as he settled back against the cushioned seat.

"Right, I'm going to take that as a _make me look pretty."_

Her hands moved to grab the curved needles she'd used to stitch and the dissolvable stitches she'd thread through. It was quiet and mindless work, the minimal scarring technique the most perfected one in her books. Knowing her mind would take only a few more seconds to fall into boredom, she lifted her eyes for a split second, taking in the pain lacing blue irises.

 _That_ was why she'd insisted on a pain treatment; even something that would only knock out the area would've been enough. But the strong edge to his lips told her without having to question, that he would turn her down. He wanted all his wits about him while in the stranger's home and under her needle. Looking back to her work and noting it was almost complete, she cleared her throat awkwardly.

Crystal eyes snapped to her face in a silent demand. _What now?_

She managed to hold the piercing gaze for all of three seconds. "Your name?" she hurried out, pretending the answer didn't matter as she looked back to his shoulder. "What's your name?"

Again, she was met with; "Why?"

Rolling her own amber eyes skywards, she continued with her absent work. "Once again, I'm trying to make conversation and I'm kind of putting your skin flaps back together, you know? Creates a special bond," she commented. "I also may be trying to distract you…"

He didn't question what she was trying to distract him _from_ , and tilted his head so he could watch her without sitting up or straining forwards. Remaining silent for a few more tense seconds, he seemed to be mulling over what to say. "Tell me yours," he instructed, the rough tone of voice not exactly leaving her with many options.

Swallowing, she managed the brightest smile humanly possible. "Samara," she revealed. "Samara Mason, M.D."

His lips moved, sounding out her name before he nodded acceptingly.

"And? Your name is?" Samara prompted, eyebrows climbing high on her head as she cleanly finished her suturing. The wound was neatly closed and no longer dribbling red, but some blood still lingered on his bronzed skin.

Once again, blue eyes clouded over in thought. "James Barnes."

* * *

 **So, the updates won't be this often but I thought that you guys needed more to go on then a few hundred words. I hope you like it, it** _ **is**_ **a little bit forced to me, especially compared to my usual style of writing; but thankfully the next chapter is more comfortable and flows much easier.**

 **Love you lots, and have an amazing day – cause reasons. Also! I don't own this, sucks to be me.**

 **Taila xx**


	3. Healed, but not exactly happy

Samara stared the male down, eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "Now, are you _sure_ that's all your injuries?" she questioned slowly, shifting her weight about somewhat nervously. It was tempting to press more and make the man tell the truth, but she was pushing her luck already; his eyes flashing in anger and muscles taunt under unseen strain.

The previously named _James_ turned to glare, cheek twitching in annoyance. "Yes," he answered shortly, watching impatiently as she moved about. "What are you doing now?"

Sighing, the dark haired female shrugged. "The stitches can't get wet," she mumbled, sifting through the drawers. She had bandages around here somewhere, she knew it, but the trick was finding them before her guest finally succumbed to the _fight or flight_ instinct warring behind his eyes. "I want to wrap them to avoid any over stimulation from oxygen or smoke, yadda yadda…"

Samara's words fell away as she pulled out the sterile package, reading over the inscription as her free hand drummed nervously against her thigh. Beside her, her guest – actually, did he count as a guest or an _intruder_? – was silent, his breathing quiet but ragged enough to be heard over the idle hum of her equipment. The man must have been exhausted, and it showed in the way his eyes drooped and his head lolled about on occasion before jerking back into focus. It was almost adorable.

 _Almost_.

"Here," she murmured, barely noticing as she thrust the packet towards him. The gloves donning her hands were stained a shocking red, and she ripped them from her skin with little more than a glance, years in a surgical theatre not allowing her to do much else. "Oh, hey, did you want me to put any cream on the site of the dislocation?" she voiced, pale hands now hovering over his torn shoulder. " _Deep Heat_ , or something?"

He lifted a brow, eyes dropping to her hands as his lips remained sealed.

"I'll take that as a _yes_ ," Samara translated, moving to grab the medicinal cream from a nearby drawer. Blue eyes studied the full tube warily and she held it up for closer inspection. "It'll help with swelling, and deal with some of the pain," she explained, squeezing some onto the tips of her fingers. "It'll be cool, then warm, okay? It's, uh, to distract you, I guess? You're not going to focus on the pain what with constant temperature changes, am I right?"

Cue the awkward chuckle…

James was quiet, eyes drifting away in disinterest as she started to ramble, so she sighed and pressed her fingers against his skin; tutting when she noticed how heated it was beneath her hand. Despite his apparent boredom with the situation, he tensed further with every second that passed, clearly unhappy about the prolonged contact she'd initiated. So she hurried – hands moving in practised circles to massage the lotion in with feigned ease before she wrapped up the bronze in white; almost wanting to mourn the loss of the stunning colour.

She could try and try to sun bathe for hours, or even resort to a tanning studio but all she became was _miserable_ instead of gloriously golden. Compared to him, she was deathly pale with porcelain skin and a distinct lack of muscle definition gracing the length of her body. It was just another blow to her pride that she didn't need at three o'clock in the bloody morning.

Rubbing awkwardly at the back of her neck, Samara took her hands away as she pointedly stepped out of the man's bubble. His shoulder was wrapped, wound, stitched and all his problems – besides the obvious psychological ones – apparently dealt with. She'd done her bit, completed the task she'd been asked to do…

So what the fuck did they do now?

"So, uh, that's me finished," she frowned, trying desperately, but failing to change the downturn of her lips to something more friendly. "You're good to go?"

The words sounded meek, even to her own ears and absently she wondered if they made her come across as easy pickings, but she didn't know what else there was to say. The frightened knot was back in her stomach, tearing down whatever courage she'd managed to find and leaving her trembling in fear of what was going to happen next. She'd had a task, something to focus her restless energy on, and something to be needed for – but now she was done.

By completing her work had she done a good thing or a bad? Was he just going to up and leave? Pay her like her usual clients? Shiv her in the kidney?

James pushed away from the recliner, rolling his shoulder experimentally and making a small sound of acknowledgment in the back of his throat. Did that mean he was pleased? Had she done well? Her bottom lip was bitten into oblivion as he continued his absent testing, brow pulled tight over dulled eyes before he glanced up and made his way back onto his feet.

As his eyes met hers, all the thoughts came crashing back. _This is it. Fuck. You're dead. Totally dead. Damn it. He's going to –_

James stumbled.

Samara made a noise of surprise and darted forward, hooking her arm around the small of his back. His weight crushed her downwards and she grunted under the pressure, her free hand lifting to hold his stomach. "James?" she demanded. "James, can you hear me?

The man in her arms let out a low moan, the sound strangled before he tottered dangerously on his feet. She was tempted to let the weak grip she had on him go, least he pull her down with him, but stayed attached instead, only hissing when her knees hit the carpeted floor. Her hand moved from his navel to the ground in a last ditch attempt to stop the face first collision and save what little remained of her pride.

Samara let out a snort, straightening the robe she wore before sitting up. "What the bloody hell was that? Lose your…" she heard the sentence die, eyes widening as they zeroed in on the body lying next to her. "You're unconscious," she stated dumbly, before slowly, hesitantly, leaning closer to his face. "James?"

No answer. Not even a non-committal grunt. It was a shame really; she was growing fond of his caveman way of speaking.

Leaning back on her haunches, her eyes flickered up to the phone laying innocently on the surface of her desk. It would be oh so easy to stand, walk towards the sleek invention, dial a simple three number code and then tell the nice sounding lady on the other side about the man who'd broken into home, bleeding and wielding an eight-inch blade. Oh so bloody easy.

So why the _hell_ was she trying to drag him across the carpet?

Grunting in frustration, Samara tugged on the cool metal under her hand, curiosity under wraps as she tried to get the man to the nearest guest room. It was a small consolation to know she'd been right in thinking he'd looked exhausted, but not enough to outweigh the surprise of seeing him fall down like that, to watch as it almost looked like someone cut the strings holding him up.

"Good god man, what the hell do you eat?" she growled, panting in exertion as she slumped against her painted hallway. The man weighed more than a solid tonne, but the slim muscle tone she could see through the breaks in his shirt were enough of an answer to the silent question. "Oh ugh, muscles weighs more than fat," she remembered, glaring down at the aforementioned definition.

Honestly, who did this guy think he was? Samara let out another sound of annoyance as she resumed her panicked dragging. This _James_ character clearly hadn't had her noodle arms in mind when he'd been pumping iron and drinking protein shakes. If he was more on the _lean_ side and less on the _chiselled god_ side, trying to lift him into bed would've been so much easier…

"Upsie daisy," she groaned, throwing her weight behind her next shove. "Come on!" she breathed next. His body was kind of in, but also kind of _out_ of the bed, her weak arms only allowing her to get his less weighty legs and hips up onto the mattress while his torso remained smashed into the floor.

 _Heh, snap a picture and use it as blackmail if he tries to shiv you in the kidneys!_

Taking a few steps back, she lifted a hand to her chin and surveyed the situation, trying to make sense of the past hour of her life. "It all started with a bowl of pasta, huh?" she muttered, moving forward again and wrapping her hands around his waist. If he chose now to wake up, she was a dead woman. "Then your dumb house decided to point out that the back doors been shimmied open." He was almost on the bed now, arms wind milling slightly with every rough tug his caretaker gave. Samara sighed, "And finally, you try to threaten the poster boy for steroids with a finger gun. Ten out of ten, you stupid idiot."

The last desperate tug found the man fully on the bed – small miracles – and the exhausted body did little more than settle into the soft mattress before becoming still. Samara cocked her head at the sight before diving in again, this time trying to wrestle the covers out from underneath him so she could drape them over his body. The temperature here was never set in stone and the likelihood that she'd wake up to an icicle was strangely and worryingly _high._

"Actually no, not finally," she realised, frowning as she tugged out the sheets and thick duvet. "Finally would be his little fainting act. We had the whole _heal me human, you be doctor_ thing before that…" Bunching up a pillow, she all but shoved it under his head, yawning widely as she did so. "At least he knows proper English, I should be thankful if anything."

Slumping back when the man was properly bedded, she tried to glare at his prone form but found she didn't really have the strength. He weighed a lot more than she'd thought was humanly possible. Rubbing a hand over her eyes, Samara looked to the phone on the bedside table, fingers itching for the receiver.

She had a man in her home, a man with a very large sharp thing, that – while he hadn't actually verbally threatened to hurt her – had made it clear he needed her for one thing and one thing only. Which she had now done for him. It would be in her best interests to ring for help, because once he woke up, she had no guarantees on her wellbeing.

Best interests…

 _You know, it's almost funny how when you should be doing something, you somehow end up doing the complete opposite. Like how you claim to be on a diet, but didn't you have cake for breakfast this morning?_ Samara snorted and turned to glare at the phone, the mere ghost of a memory holding her back from doing what most would've been scrambling to achieve in her situation.

But the thing was; this was a situation that she'd been in before. Oh yes, this wasn't her first hostage date with a weapon wielding psycho.

And wow, wasn't that sad to say out loud?

Samara let out a small sigh and rubbed a hand over her eyes, images from her last _date_ cropping up behind the closed lids. It was years ago now, when she'd first graduated and started the tedious journey of making a name for herself in an already overcrowded industry. Of course, the first time around had involved a lot more blood, gun waving and threatening voices then whatever the quiet affair of the past hour claimed to hold, but there was still the odd similarity.

The man snoozing away on her bed wasn't one of them though, and compared to the high end drug cartel she'd dealt with last time, he should've been a walk in the park. There was only _one_ of him for starters – round one had more than half a dozen assholes on her doorstep – and his wound was minor compared to the multiple blasts of ammo to an already scarred meaty chest. Simple stitching, a little cleaning; hell James was a _dream_ compared to last time.

Because last time, _oh_ _last time_ she'd been made to dig shotgun pellets from fat, muscles and organs while trying not to sweat under the glare of weasely looking druggies. Who owned guns. Lots and lots of guns.

James only owned a cheese knife.

One of the similarities though was the classic; _you heal me or you die_ cliché. Both drug cartel and hunky god had resorted to _that_ good age old method of getting what they wanted from whoever was on the receiving end of their glares. And it was safe to say that she'd chosen the whole _heal me_ option every time – hell, she'd even put effort into it, making sure that there was less chance of lasting pain or damage. They were just like her other clients if she thought about it. Of course, they didn't pay her with money, just with her life, but other than that? No difference from the snotty people who wanted a better nose or chin.

It was just another job to be done and long story short, it gave her a purpose that fixing vanity didn't. So what that with every nose job she completed, she could buy some more food or some other necessity? Every time someone broke into her house and held her at gun point, it gave her the chance to save a life. More than one actually, if she counted her own.

And… uh… She was really failing at this whole _morality_ and _selflessness_ thing wasn't she?

Samara cleared her throat when movement flickered on the bed, her male companion shifting and slinging the metal arm out to the side. She wasn't selfish for wanting to live right? And if she called the calvary now, she'd be the hostage but with bigger threats to her body than a blade at her stomach. Every man panicked under the strain of time and danger, and with men in blue breathing down his neck there'd be no telling how James would react.

Really, it was self-preservation. She'd make the call once he'd left, stopping any danger to her own person, to the hunk and to the innocent men who'd come to her aid. She was doing a _service_ to everyone involved.

They should be thanking her, damn it.

Swallowing thickly, Samara moved to kneel beside the bed, studying the man's features with the absent minded appreciation that he looked so much younger in sleep than in waking. There were no angered lines marring his brow, or twisting the stunning curve of his lips and he almost looked, dare she say it, peaceful. Almost. If it hadn't been for the slightest hint of tightness to his eyes, she would've fallen for the façade.

Her eyes drifted after that, falling to the silver arm peeking out from the dirtied strips of material. Now – now would be the absolute perfect time to sate the curiosity currently eating away at her sanity without the risk to her wellbeing; all she'd have to do it lift up the remnants of his shirt and _look_ at what lay beneath.

So damned easy…

Biting her lip, she reached out a trembling hand, checking to make sure blue eyes were hidden by sleep before she picked up a strip of the torn shirt. James wiggled. Stifling a yelp, her eyes flashed back up to his face, noting that he was still in the land of dreams before she managed to calm down enough to actually _move_ the material she'd snagged between her fingers.

"Careful…" she whispered inaudibly, lip still between her teeth and beginning to leak the taste of iron into her mouth, as she shifted the dark clothing. The contrast between silver and black was stunning, but the tension holding her head down didn't allow her any time to appreciate it as she carefully –

Oh.

 _Oh._

Samara blinked dumbly at the sight laid bare to her eyes, the whiskey orbs roaming over the clear connection between silver and bronzed skin. "This is definitely a childhood mistake," she noted quietly, sparing his closed eyes another wary look before snapping back to his arm.

There was terrible scarring lining the dark skin of his collarbone and shoulder, stretching all the way down to his chest in a painful swirl of mangled tissue. It almost looked like he'd been burnt, the skin bubbled and broken, and the chilled metal attached to it blemish free and shining. Her fingers lifted to run over the connection point, moving from heated skin to cool silver without so much as a bump.

"Who did this to you?" she whispered, eyes burning slightly in sympathy as she rested back on her haunches.

The phone on the bedside table seemed a million miles away now, and the police even further than that. She wouldn't call – she _couldn't_ call, not when she had her eyes resting on such a sight. No man, sanity being questioned or not, would do this to themselves unless they had too or were forced too and even better yet; Samara didn't even think such technology like this existed.

She was one of the top cosmetic surgeons in the area. She was credited, well known, _expensive…_ She would know if this arm was available to the public, or even to the private for that matter. But she didn't. Which meant that this wasn't made for the better of the world or the people residing within. No, something told her this was made for the better of one person, and for the downfall of everyone else.

Samara shook her head, almost distressed by the mistreated man in front of her as her eyes landed on his skin again. It was red there, inflamed and irritated in a way skin wasn't meant to be. Frowning, she moved closer and pressed her fingers to the abused section, mind buzzing.

The burning told her everything.

"Damn it," she hissed, pushing to her feet and stumbling back out of the room. "Of course his body isn't accepting the arm," Samara muttered, finding her way back into her office and the draws crammed against the wall. She slumped against them and began to furiously dig through each and every one with a deep frown set onto her lips. "Because it's just my luck."

Pulling out a clean and empty syringe, she moved over to where she kept her medicine in small bottles, growling when she noted the door was locked. Her next, stamping footsteps were nicely dramatic as she fetched her keys from the kitchen before coming back, face still marred by an angered frown. "No, he couldn't have been in perfect shape, he just had to have… whatever that shiny thing is on his arm and then to put the cherry on the shit cake - he has prosthetic joint infection."

With the door unlocked, she ran her fingers over the bottles with a confused glare. What the hell would she use to deal with it? She didn't have any long term options, she would need access to a hospital or lab for that, but she had some antibiotics that could help…

Samara was snarling by the time her fingers closed around a bottle, and she moved from the room once again, blinking hard as she wandered through the hallways and back to the man's side. He was still on the bed, silent and still as the dead besides the steady rise and fall of his chest.

She snorted as she ducked to the spot beside him. "You. Do I even wanna know how low your immune system is? Or how badly you're deficient in the nutrients your body needs to survive? Do I?" she demanded, lifting the vial and dutifully checking it before beginning to full the syringe. After tapping out any air bubbles, she reached over and pressed the tip of the needle against the inflamed flesh. "I'm force feeding you kiwifruit and berries tomorrow my friend, you better believe it."

The needle went in without a struggle, but she still winced in sympathy when the muscles in his neck spasmed slightly. "Sorry, but you need vitamins, so it's either you eat the fruit or I get those chewy pills people give to their fussy kids. We clear?"

His silence was all she needed to know that _yes, they were clear_.

"Just what I thought," she murmured, yawning into her hand again as she moved away quietly. Her mind was finally – _finally_ – tired, and all it had taken was a machete wielding maniac with a penchant for sun bathing. Who would've thought.

Pushing to her feet, she stumbled a little further, slumping against the empty side of the bed. She wanted to sleep and the free section of mattress was as good a place as any, but something told her that he would wake up first and if he found her sleeping beside him; she'd awaken with missing organs. Or he'd shiv her in the kidney, since he seemed to prefer that method.

 _What evidence do you even have of that?_

Snorting at her own idiot brain – clearly he preferred that method, so shut up – Samara yawned and leant back against the comfortable mattress as she closed her eyes. She could easily open them again, but she needed the brief moments of rest before she'd have the strength to walk all the way over to her bedroom. When said brief moments were up, it took more than she thought to actually reopen her eyes and better yet, to push away from the bed.

Finding her footing, she staggered drunkenly over to the bedroom door, slipping it shut with a small click behind her as she wandered a little ways down the hall. Her own room was waiting patiently for her, the bedside lamp still on and covers still rumpled from her previous hours of tossing and turning. Staring at the large bed for a few seconds, she mumbled something unintelligible under her breath before rushing forward to drop down onto the cotton sheets.

 _Heaven_ , her mind supplied after a few blissful seconds of silence, and she couldn't help but tiredly agree. It took a little maneuvering for all her limbs to be back under the covers, and absently she removed the dressing gown and dropped it lazily onto the floor without thought.

She had a man with a metal arm and a list of issues longer than her credentials sleeping in her guest room – screw being a tidy human.

Speaking of the metal armed hunky man; she would deal with him tomorrow – at a reasonable hour. If she had too, she could see herself cancelling her appointments for the next few days, but she didn't see how she'd get out of the surgery set for tomorrow evening…

Samara snuggled further into the covers, tired out just by thinking about the damage control she'd have to deal with if she missed some appointments. As she'd said though; she'd deal with it all tomorrow, after a few hours of sleep and her usual breakfast of fruit and coffee – or cake – down her gullet.

For now, she had an appointment with the sand man.

* * *

 **Hey my fellow, uh, fanfiction-ers? Hope you liked this, it's taking me a little while to get into the groove of things, but damn this is becoming fun to write. The sarcasm of this woman is spectacular. Honestly. I'm so damn proud of myself right now, it's disgusting.**

 **Taila xx**


	4. House guest intruder thing?

It didn't hurt.

 _Why_ didn't it hurt?

Blue eyes snapped open, immediately narrowing in suspicion as they zeroed in on the plain white ceiling hovering above them. He didn't remember his make-shift cot lying underneath a _clean_ roof – and he also didn't remember cotton and softness lying underneath _him_ or covering his body.

And he definitely didn't remember the absence of pain.

Bucky grunted, pushing up onto his elbows with only a small sting instead of the agony he remembered from the previous night. His shoulder was still tender but it was usable; a pain that wasn't worth anything more than a quick once over and dismissing snort. The doctor did a decent job; he'd give her that much…

Maybe he _wouldn't_ use his trusty blade to cut her open and leave her to try and stitch her own skin back together? Out of appreciation of a job well done.

Looking over the room once, he wrinkled his nose at the pale hues of blue and grey that decorated the walls and carpet; a lazy but peaceful theme that spread into the décor and art. "Feminine," he muttered, rubbing his flesh hand over his face. The movement caused a small speckle of pain to dance through his nerves, but he ignored it with another grunt, instead rolling out his metal limb in curiosity.

It didn't hurt…

He'd half expected it to slowly burn back into consciousness, but there was still a definite absence of the recent agony that had laced the silver connection. His head lolled over, studying as much of the scarred skin as he could from the awkward angle. Nothing seemed out of place, and there were no visible signs of any tampering on the – _There._

A single pinprick of dried blood, near where the human ended and the monster began.

His eyes drifted over to the bedside table, narrowing in on the empty needle carelessly left there and the vial of clear liquid beside it. She'd injected him with something? Reaching out, he snatched up the bottle but didn't recognize the name of the drug, panic blooming in his chest. Was this medicine or poison? Something to help him or to hinder him?

Growling under his breath, Bucky pushed to his feet, staggering slightly as a wave of dizziness hit him. Shaking his head with a harsh and quick movement helped the nausea somewhat, and he rolled his eyes skywards for a few seconds, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat. He had a mission – find the doctor and preferably throw her against something – and vomiting was not only loud, but time consuming.

If the woman – _Samara_ , his mind supplied – didn't hear him throwing up, then by the time he'd finally finished, she probably would've already called the police. And that meant he'd be in trouble. He knew enough about this time to know that the men in blue were bad for business.

His business.

Of – of killing people.

Yeah.

Bucky stalked forward, blinking back any lingering exhaustion as he moved with graceful and practised ease towards the bedroom door. He reached out with his metal arm to try it, surprised that the knob turned easily under his hard grip. _She didn't lock it?_ Almost distrustfully, he swung it open, peering out into the hallway.

No trap. No ambush. No men in blue.

The distrust flared for a few seconds, and he held his breath, almost waiting for the expected to happen despite the fact that it clearly wasn't. The doctor, the woman, had no reason to leave him be. To let him sleep in one of her beds after he pressed a rather impressive blade to her stomach in a threat to tear it open the night before. If she was in any way smart; she would've called for help.

Stepping further out, Bucky looked up and down the hallway again, trying to picture which way would lead him back to the kitchen. It was the way he'd gotten in before, and currently his easiest passage out – he knew where the cameras were and he knew how to rig the electronic lock. It was the safest option. Nodding, he started moving down the long stretch of corridor, snorting under his breath at the memory of the previous night. He may have known how to open the door, but he definitely didn't know how to _stop the house from announcing he'd opened it._

This was why being back in the 1940's was so much easier.

There were no houses that had realised they'd been broken into back then, and – while his mind was on the topic – there were no female doctors with annoyingly clear consciences. Not that the opposite sex was any less of a person, or any less capable of doing the work. His arm was in incredible condition and he blamed – thanked, whatever – her for it.

Freezing in his fluid movements, he stared towards the ground in confusion. Why was he so _sure_ about the 1940's? It was the twenty first century. And he wasn't ninety years old, was he?

" _Welcome to the end of eras, ice had melted back to life…"_

Bucky's head shot up, eyes seeking out the source of the lilted voice as his movements changed to a predatory gait. Now that he was paying attention to his surroundings, he could make out the slight clattering from the room he was headed towards, and the idle hum and beat that sounded suspiciously like music. He neared the room, straightening up as he rounded the corner in an attempt to make his form look bigger.

" _Done my time and served my sentence. Dress me up and watch me die."_ The doctor was bobbing her head up and down, lips pursed as she sung somewhat decently to whatever rubbish was coming from the coloured chunk of metal on the counter beside her. _"If it feels good, tastes – "_

The woman spun on her heels with the last words, holding a steaming saucepan in one hand and wooden spoon in the other but faltered when she noticed him watching her from the doorway. Bucky quirked up a brow when her eyes drifted downwards, and he almost wanted to hide his arm, not so much as worried about her judgement as willing to avoid it if possible.

" _Tastes good…"_ she continued quietly, before she roughly shook her head and let whiskey clash with blue. The smile she adopted almost made him want to look away, guilt curling unwelcomely in his chest when his mind flashed to the blade he'd left somewhere in her study. "Speaking of things tasting good; I made breakfast. Guess who's having oatmeal and kiwifruit?"

She was still smiling.

 _Why?_ What did he do to deserve that?

Eyeing her up carefully, he hovered in the doorway for a few seconds longer before trailing around the kitchen, keeping the table between them. He had a clear view of the archway he'd need to escape through, but the plan had changed the minute his mind registered there was now a person between it and him. As he thought about his next move, he noted the music was still playing from the shaped metal and she hurried to turn it down, still humming the beat under her breath.

"James? You okay?" The question was delivered alongside a frown as she idly scooped oatmeal into twin bowls, eyes flickering between the food and his features.

Now she was _frowning?_ What did he do this time? Shifting his weight between his feet, he cocked his head to the side slightly and watched her for a few more seconds. The doctor was waiting for something, it appeared, one of her eyebrows near her hair line and eyes wide and expecting. The question was though, what the hell was she waiting for?

"James?"

 _Oh._

He took a deep breath in, stomach grumbling happily at the smell of cooked food. "What did you inject my arm with?"

The woman blinked in shock, carefully placing the hot pan onto a folded strip of material. "Antibiotics?" she tried, using one finger to force her dark hair behind one ear. "Last night, after you passed out – from sheer exhaustion and blood loss, I'm assuming – I noticed your arm was hot. And, pairing that with the inflammation and fact that you have prosthetic arm led me to believe your body isn't accepting the foreign material too well," she shrugged, like the issue was nothing before moving across the room. "I gave you something to fix it. Short term though."

Bucky watched her move for a few seconds, noting she was grabbing fruits and milk from the steel fridge. "Antibiotics," he tasted the word out, eyes dropping to one of the set out plates. His handler had ordered injections for the arm as well, most likely short term, so perhaps this was the same thing. "You made breakfast."

 _And_ the smile was back.

"Yes, I did," the female announced – _Samara_ was whispered again in the back of his mind, more forcibly – with a smug look in place. "When I noticed said infection, my train of thought, which is spastic at best decided to snap to whether or not your immune system was where I'd like it to be."

Blinking back his confusion, he breathed out through his nose in hopes of eliminating the beginning of his hunger. "What does food have to do with my immune system?" he asked dryly.

Samara looked up, and annoyance was clearly plastered across her features. _"What does food have too –_ Okay, let me tell you a thing," she started, pointing a spoon in his direction almost threateningly. "You need vitamins; so you're not gonna question the only one in the room with a medical degree and fancy letters after their name, sit your fine ass down, and enjoy your kiwifruit."

Bucky almost found amusement in the way she huffed out a breath, picking up a chopping board and knife from across the room. He couldn't explain it, even within the safe regions of his mind, why he found the angered way she started cutting up the green fruit entertaining, so he let it go in favour of a new objective. The desire to throw her against something was gone, and instead he decided to see if he could add an annoyed tinge of red to her cheeks.

"I don't like kiwifruit." A blatant lie, seeing as he'd never tried the fruit, but it had the desired effect.

Samara stopped all movement, like a video on pause, and her eyes slowly lifted up to his person. Almost like a tic, her cheek twitched upwards towards the whiskey orbs. "Pardon?

Bucky folded his arms, pleased when the action was virtually painless. "I said that I don't like kiwifruit," he repeated, and despite the internal amusement, his voice held nothing. If he was someone else listening in on the conversation, he would almost say he sounded bored of the woman and her mothering antics.

He wasn't, but it was still amusing either way.

"Okay." The word was carefully pronounced and clipped, like the female was trying not to scream instead. "You _are_ a fussy child then," she murmured, and he didn't have time to understand the joke before she was speaking again. "Berries. Everyone loves berries. Do you want berries on your oatmeal?"

He let the silence grow, giving the appearance that he was contemplating the question before he snapped out; "No."

There it was again – the twitch of her cheek.

Samara slowly lowered the neat knife in her hands, chest heaving in a calming breath. There were clean piles of cut fruit in a bowl beside her, and while it looked delicious, he wasn't going to go back on the little game he'd started with the doctor. _Test_ , his mind corrected. _The Winter Soldier_ didn't play childish games. This was a test to see how far he could push her until the false, little happy façade faded into real anger.

As he'd said before, she'd have to be an idiot to not inform the authorities, and from what he'd seen; she was rather intelligent. Which meant this was either a ploy to earn his trust – like he'd give it so easily – or to distract him while the police and military arrived.

Samara let out a quiet sigh, and with a small start he realised the anger had drained into something softer. "Okay then, I should have some pills around here that'll do that trick," she murmured. "Do you still want your oatmeal?"

Testing her again, he murmured back, equally as quiet but unforgiving with his words. "No."

Nothing, not even a twitch or sigh of annoyance. The woman almost looked drained now, like all the strength had been sucked from her with every second he fought against her offers of help. Bucky shifted uncomfortably when he noticed the exhaustion and uncertainty lining her face, aging her youthful features, and the dark rings under golden eyes.

"What would you like then?" Samara tried, slowly picking up the knife again. She went straight back to cutting the fruits, even though there was no apparent use for them anymore. He wasn't sure if it was so her hands would have something to do, or so she had an excuse to hold the blade. "I'd like it if you ate something, James."

Bucky flinched at the gentle use of – what he was almost certain was – his name. "Or would you like it if I conveniently ate whatever poison or sedative you've blended in with the milk?"

Her eyes snapped up to him, fingers stilling, and he could've sworn the liquid irises took on a hurt edge. "I wouldn't waste sedatives on you," she answered shortly, and the expressive orbs shut down to something colder. "They're expensive and frankly, you're not worth it. Now, what do you want to eat? Hurry up; it's a limited time offer."

Frowning, he looked towards the floor, keeping the woman in his sight as he thought of his options. The doctor seemed genuinely upset that he had assumed the worst of her, and the offer for food was _appreciated,_ if anything. He knew he needed to eat on occasion, he'd been told by his handlers that it helped his body to function or something similar.

But what to eat was the question? If he was going to risk it – which his stomach was insisting on – then he wanted to watch her make it; to appease the nagging voice in the back of his head claiming she was trying to hurt him with her care.

So the oatmeal wasn't on the menu, not when she'd finished making it long before he'd entered the room.

The frown deepened, lights and voices flashing behind his eyes.

* * *

 _The pan was sizzling, he could hear it from the couch, and the smell of cooking batter and butter was wafting through the small apartment; no doubt the reason why his body was waking up in the first place. He smiled automatically, a hand lifting to scrub the lingering exhaustion from his features as he pushed his body up into a sitting position._

" _Hey punk, you cooking something in there?" he called out, leaning over to stretch out the aching muscles in his back. He could hear some movement from the kitchen not too far from him, and his smile widened even more when a smaller body blocked out the sunlight peeking through the archway._

 _Steve tried to look threatening, really he did, but with a tiny frame and too big eyes, he only managed adorable. "Yes," he announced firmly, nodding his head once. "And you're not leaving until you eat something."_

 _The mothering instinct of the blonde was amazing. Bucky grinned and stood, moving closer to he could clap the boy's shoulder affectionately. "Why, I didn't know you cared so much," he cooed mockingly, dodging a wayward swipe as the youth swung at him with a weak arm and bad aim. "Come on Stevie, I'm just teasing you."_

" _You tease too much," Steve muttered back, shaking the man's hand away so he was free to move back into the kitchen. "I'm making pancakes. How many do you want? One stack? Two?"_

 _Bucky was quick to follow the smaller form, already shrugging at the question. "I don't mind," he yawned, covering his mouth before slumping into one of the dining room chairs. He really had to stop sleeping on that ridiculously lumpy couch. "Don't wear yourself out on my behalf though."_

 _Even though it was delivered in a teasing tone, the blonde nodded, understanding the underlying warning. "Already made three," he announced almost smugly as he took a small step to the side, revealing three plates loaded tall. "I forgot to measure out the batter, so I went a little nuts. There's still more to come though, so you might as well get started without me."_

" _I'll wait," Bucky decided._

" _You sure? They'll probably get cold and – "_

" _Steve? I'm gonna wait for you, okay?" Bucky chuckled, leaning forward to rest his chin on his arms. "Man, I hate your couch, feel like I've slept on a bed of rocks all night," he complained, arching his back in a hope to alleviate the pain._

 _The blonde boy snorted, absently patting at a cooking pancake. "I thought the army barracks had rock slabs for bed?"_

" _I wouldn't know," Bucky wrinkled his nose, not keen to investigate the topic with his friend. "I have an idea! You're the one who wants to join the military so bad, so why don't we start trading places whenever I stay with you? That way, my back won't hurt the morning after and you can try getting used to army conditions," he offered playfully, winking when the smaller male turned to sigh in his direction. "What? It wasn't a bad idea."_

" _Not to you," Steve muttered, moving the pancake onto another stack as he too steered clear of the topic. "I can't be bothering cooking the rest," he decided. "Might as well eat what we've got now. I'll cook it up for dinner or lunch, maybe?"_

 _Bucky smiled and stood, going to help him transfer the heavy plates to the rickety table. There was enough to feed a small army, but he'd easily be able to finish his portion, and if he had too – he'd help his friend with his. "Want me to stay again? I'm feeling a blanket fort tonight."_

" _Shut up and eat your breakfast."_

* * *

Samara refused to feel nervous or threatened by the silence; instead she continued to absently cut up the fruits she'd gotten out before, pretending that all of her attention was devoted to the simple act. She didn't know _what_ the man was thinking – and a quiet voice in her mind told her she probably didn't _want_ to know – but the focused and almost wistful expression was making her insides churn.

Was he going through a mental list of breakfast foods, or the perfect places to cut a human being so they bled the most?

If it was the former, she had a recipe book right behind her he could borrow, but if it was the latter; she wasn't giving _any_ of her medical advice towards the cause. If he was such a good killer person, then he'd already know where to slice, she wasn't helping him out.

Popping a cube of kiwifruit in her mouth, she chewed and swallowed; repeating the notion in a tedious loop. "I have a waffle maker?" she voiced into the silence, sighing when she noticed the words go in one ear and out the other. "And serious regret right now for making you food and acting like a damn smiling idiot. Did you seriously think I would poison you?"

Silence.

"I wouldn't," she muttered, frowning and stabbing a berry with the knife. "That's mean, and I wanna help you. I think? Maybe. I don't even know." Looking up, she caught him scrubbing at his face. "James?"

Finally, he seemed to hear her, head lifting and eyes flickering over her person. "Pancakes."

Huh?

Machete wielding, robot armed, hunky dude wanted pancakes?

Samara blinked in shock for a few seconds, staring at him with a dumb founded expression on her face. "You want pancakes?" she repeated, watching as he nodded shortly. "Pancakes. Okay, no, okay I can do pancakes, no problem," she grinned and started gathering ingredients, turning her back to the man before hesitating. "Hey, uh, do you want to watch me make it?"

The offer was met with an annoyed grunt, like he thought she was mocking him and she started to backtrack. "I'd want to watch if you made me food, honestly," she shrugged. "For all you know, I could be using salt instead of sugar. Watching might be in your best interests."

James studied her with the same quizzical expression he'd been using all morning – she'd be annoyed, but hell, even she didn't know what she was doing – before he gave a slow nod. "Make it on the table," he commanded lowly, gesturing to the empty space in front of him. "Show me what you use and how much you use. In case I'm ever tempted to make them in my own time."

 _Is that the most he's ever said at one time? I think it is. I'll be damned._

Gathering the things needed, she dumped them on the table before him like an offering, muttering under her breath as she went through a mental recipe. It wasn't too hard right? A little flour, baking powder, maybe some milk and eggs…

"I _would_ sift the flour and all," Samara started, smiling again despite his unimpressed stare. "But I can't be bothered; so you can have lumpy pancakes because you're a little shit," she finished, the grin taking on an edge of humour as she started measuring out the white powder. Pursing her lips, she gently dropping it into the bowl, already reaching out for the next ingredient.

Blue eyes were unamused. "Or you could sift it, because I own a knife."

"Which is in my office," Samara continued, pursing her lips again as she concentrated. The desire to not muck up the simple meal was stronger than she thought, but she tried to smother it beneath a casual smile. "Which is locked, if you didn't already know."

"I broke into your house last night. You think I can't break into one room?" James demanded, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. It was almost like he was offended at the thought he _couldn't_ do it, features twisting in slight distaste.

"That room holds drugs and medical equipment," Samara pointed out with a roll of her own eyes. "It's harder to break into than Fort Knox – trust me, I've had break in's before and that room is always left untouched. And I don't think it's because the thieves had no interest."

Her bantering partner fell silent, and she took it as a victory, grinning as she moved across the room to heat up a hot plate on her stove. The pancake batter looked smooth, not that it was missing any lumps, but she didn't think he'd toss the finished product across the room in disgust so she was calling it a win.

Because damn it man, she was a doctor not a five star chef!

"Any way you want these?" Samara inquired, peering over her shoulder in curiosity. A yelp built up in her throat when she met the blue eyes watching her, the intense scrutiny making her feel like a bug under a microscope. "Burnt? Not burnt? Raw?" she continued, voice weaker than before as she hurried to look away from the piercing gaze.

 _Tip number one – eye contact with machete wielding, robot armed, hunky dude is forbidden. Tip number two – pay attention to pancakes as they're cooking because cooking things are proven to burn._

"Shit," she hissed, hurrying to flip the cooked pool of batter. The cooked side was a warm brown and she felt her chest loosen in relief, safe in the knowledge that she hadn't burnt the man's breakfast.

An amused huff sounded behind her, and movement ghosted along the tiled floor. "Not burnt, but not raw either, please."

"I even got a please," Samara noted aloud, smiling slightly at the bubbling mass and flipping it onto a plate. The perfect circle made her inner obsessive perfectionist sigh in contentment, and she added another spoonful to the hotplate. "Maple syrup? Bacon? Bananas?" she questioned quickly, moving to the cupboards and pulling out different toppings. "I have honey even, if you're feeling adventurous."

Risking another glance back, her own smile widened when she saw the small flicker of amusement dance through blue eyes. "Berries," James murmured, and with the word she understood the mirth lining his features.

Turning, she pointed the dirtied spatula at him in feigned threat. "You, you are a funny man," she commented. "Which kind? If you haven't noticed, I've got quite the selection currently decorating my table. Take your pick while I cook up the rest of these."

She heard the male grunt an affirmative before more rustling sounded behind her, and as tempted as she was to look, she tried not to. She was sure that constantly watching him would make it look like she didn't trust him, and for some reason she wanted him to believe she did. It wasn't that there _was_ actually any trust between them, because no, one half of her mind was currently screaming there was a blade about three inches from her lower spine while the other was crying and curled into a ball. But if he thought she did, then he might learn to trust a little more.

 _You're talking like you want him to stick around, Sammy… Don't. This is a bad train of thought. You should be wondering when you'll next be able to call the police. Not how he likes his pancakes._

It took a while for the pancakes to be finished, and with a muffled yawn, she carried them to the table; dumping it on the side she wanted her unwelcomed guest to sit. It was an impressive pile, enough to feed a small army, and she was tempted to see if he could eat it all.

"James, I had a banana, did you see where I put it?" Samara muttered, looking around for the dull yellow fruit. She'd put it right next to her bowl, hadn't she? To complete her usual tradition of bananas and berries with her oatmeal. "I could've sworn I had it somewhere and – and that is a banana peel. Dude, you actually ate my banana. That's not cool."

There was no sign of it, nothing but a peel and the man shrugged like he had no clue what she was talking about. With a roll of her eyes, she stood up and fetched another, noting he hadn't sat down or touched the food he'd demanded. "Sit down and eat up before it gets cold," she commanded absently, cutting up the banana and dropping it in her bowl. The berries were next and she clicked her tongue, grabbing a small handful of raspberries before pushing the rest in his direction. "I put a lot of effort into those things, so you better appreciate them."

It took a few seconds, the time seeming to stretch out painfully, before he sat down opposite her and picked up the fork.

* * *

 **Hey, this chapter is coming a little earlier because tomorrow I'm a little busy and wouldn't have the time to post until later in the evening. I figured that early was better than later? Eh, don't question it, just accept it children.**

 **Taila xx**


	5. Domestic troubles?

He ended up eating not only the giant stack of pancakes, but the oatmeal she'd also made him and the rest of the fruit – kiwi's included – that was prepped and ready on the chopping board for his tasting pleasures.

She wasn't sure if she was impressed or pissed he'd lied about not liking kiwifruits.

"Well, keep eating like this and your immune system will be up in no time," Samara announced dryly, watching him scrape the remainder of the oatmeal out of the neat white bowl. The sound was grating on her nerves slightly, but she let him have at it, unable to stop her mind from questioning when the last time he ate was. He seemed built, and muscle mass was hard to maintain without a constant stream of calories…

 _I swear to god, if you ask him to keep a food diary, I'll skin you alive._

Smothering her concern – and the voice demanding to know why she even cared in the first place – Samara quirked a brow at his ravenous actions before pushing to her feet with a sigh. She had an endless supply of food in her cupboards, and even if he managed to somehow work through it all – she had a car, money and the location of the nearest supermarket. She was set to feed the apparent army living in the hunk's stomach.

Her sudden movement caught the man's attention, and instantly blue eyes were studying her as she went towards the fridge again. "What are you doing?" James demanded, frowning as he placed the bowl down and shoved it away.

Samara shrugged noncommittally, already moving onto the pantry situated in the corner of her kitchen. "Do you know what cocoa pops are?" she asked, pulling out a brightly coloured box of cereal. "Or fruit loops?"

James only frowned deeper, lines beginning to mar the stubble covered skin of his cheeks. "No."

"Well then, I'm about to introduce you to a sugary world full of happiness and sunshine," she announced with a small smile, moving back towards the table with twin childishly decorated boxes. She presented both to him like an offering, quickly flipping a switch on the wall to turn her coffee maker on as she passed by. "Okay now, this one is chocolate flavoured and this one is kinda tooty fruity like, you know what I mean?"

"No, I do not _know what you mean_ ," James replied simply, almost bored with the conversation already. The usual hard set of his lips was still intact, but his eyes had brightened considerably since the night before and he looked to what she was showing him with new curiosity.

Samara snorted, pushing the fruit loops forward. "I don't like these as much, but you've gotta keep 'em around for craving attacks," she informed him sagely, turning to grab a cup and place it under the machine. "Try them first, so you can wash the taste out of your mouth with cocoa pops. Just in case they're not your style."

James picked up the box with silver fingers, studying it for a few seconds before he looked back up to her with an almost confused expression.

"It's just cereal? Tip it out, and I'll get you some milk," Samara explained, yawning again as she did so and hoping it eased some of the sharp edged confusion. She didn't want to treat him like an idiot, but it was clear there were times he didn't know what she was talking about, or what she was referring too

 _Why is that, I wonder…_

Delivering the milk to him, she watched her state of the art coffee maker – she was allowed to splurge on useless things if she wanted too – spit out the darkly coloured heaven, sighing as the aroma wafted towards her nose. "Coffee?" she offered absently, already pulling it to her face and breathing in. "God, I love this machine. It's my child and I want it buried with me when I die."

"Coffee?"

The interested tone made her smile into the bitter drink. "Oh yes, state of the art, damn good, _real_ coffee," she promised, tipping the untouched cup in his direction. "I know you want some…"

It took him a few seconds, conflict shining in blue irises, but he cautiously nodded and she tipped her head in acknowledgement, already turning to prepare another cup. Looking back – somewhat sneakily through her loose hair – she watched him pour some milk into the bowl, his spoon already packed with brightly coloured hoops. She didn't think he'd like that one, but she was positive he would be a cocoa kinda guy; something was just telling her that his only weakness would be chocolate milk.

He may have been skilled with a knife, and was the sole owner of a futuristic metal arm – but as she'd said, she had unlimited access to a convenience store and therefore to chocolate milk. She'd win any battle between them, hands down.

"Here," Samara murmured, gently placing the decorated mug beside his flesh elbow. "It's plain, with creamer. Did you want any sugar or sweetener?" she offered, already reaching behind her body to grab the old fashioned ceramic container of sugar. "I like it bitter as hell, and not a lot of people tend to agree with _that_ life decision."

James blinked at up her, lips twisting in clear disgust. The expression painting his features was almost pleading, like he was begging for help, and it took her a few seconds to notice he'd taken a large bite of the fruit loops.

A snorting laugh burst past her lips, and she hurried to cover her mouth in embarrassment. "Oh god, you don't like it?" Samara chuckled, shaking her head when his cheek twitched in impatience. "I'm sorry but that was damn adorable," she admitted, fetching him another bowl and taking his current one away from him. The new bowl was blessedly empty and she hurried to pour the chocolatey cereal into its depths. "Eat the cocoa pops like I told you too, it'll get rid of the taste and make life worth living again, I promise."

Keeping up her previous game of looking away when he needed to do something – he was like a cat that would only eat if you left the room – she leant against the counter, absently mixing her coffee with a silver teaspoon. The smell of caffeine hit her again just as a grunt sounded behind her, tugging her attention back to the table and away from her morning fix.

"I told you you'd like it," Samara whispered, silently pleased as she watched the stranger scoop more cereal into his mouth. The actions were slower than before, so his gas tank was almost on full, so to speak and the thought made her smile again.

Sipping lazily at her coffee, she relaxed minutely against the counter and stared out the window, not overly bothered by the other person in the room. Yes, he probably had another knife stashed _somewhere_ on his person, but the biggest – and scariest, in her opinion – one was safely in her study. Okay, and yes, he could probably kill her without said weapon but if he wanted too, wouldn't he have done it already? Wouldn't she have woken up without a head?

Anyway, the point of the matter was that she wasn't bothered by his presence, but she was cautious at best – which was _why_ said knife was still safely far away from her person and in her study.

As far as she was concerned, he hadn't done anything since he'd woken up so he didn't deserve to be treated like an uncaged animal. And okay, _maybe_ her stupid show of trust was going to stab her in the back – no, it would be the man who did the stabbing – but she wasn't willing to show caution that would no doubt be picked up on by crystalline blue eyes. He was already watching her curiously enough as it was, features wondering every time she smiled his way or spoke to him.

She liked to think he was too interested to take her down, or at least mollified enough by her kindness to leave without a second glance…

The sound of a spoon clattering against the bowl tore her from her indecision, and she smiled slightly into her drink, the raised rims hiding the action before her guest could snort or grunt in annoyance like he was apparently prone to do. "Still hungry over there?" she questioned idly, trying to sound as uncaring as she could. "Do you want something with a little more substance or you happy with the pops?"

She turned to watch him after posing the question, not willing to look away too long and make him think she was being rude or avoiding his eyes. It also helped to watch his features for response, rather than having to rely solely on his voice and words. She wasn't sure _how_ he did it, but he managed to sound bored or annoyed even while his eyes shined in poorly hidden amusement or curiosity.

James blinked, lashes brushing against his cheeks. "Do you have any more – "

His blue eyes flashed, words dying away as the sound of sirens blared somewhere in the distance, and his entire form went rigid in the dining chair. Samara couldn't help but tense as well, eyes drifting over to the window with something akin to panic. Was he expecting some unsavoury company? Were there people after him? Would she be able to hide him in time if they _did_ pull into her home?

She didn't even question the protective urge that echoed through her mind. _The basement will probably be your best bet – or the attic; there's enough clutter up there to hide him from a quick once over…_ Nodding in time with her mental rambling, she dumped her cup in the sink as she pulled away from the counter, going to hover beside the window with a pounding heart. They'd be fine, the cops were probably interested in someone across the block.

As the sirens grew louder however, she panicked all the more – maybe she should just hide him now? You know, just in case.

"James, I think we should – _Gah!"_

Turning to speak to him had been a mistake, and once again her back found the wall with a bruising intensity and her neck became the home for his metal arm. Samara could only struggle against the forearm pressing into her throat, mouth open as she tried to get much needed air into her lungs so she could speak again.

"You were distracting me."

The accusation sounded over the beating of her heart, and for a few seconds she stopped struggling, mind processing the words. She was distracting him from what? Leaving? Well, _excuse her_ for trying to make sure he had something in his stomach first.

Licking her lips – she had enough air for a sentence maybe – she spoke around the pressure on her throat. "D-Distract you f-from what exactly?" she questioned, the desire to cough growing in the back of her mouth.

Blue eyes bore into her own with a frightening intensity, the arm pressing harder. "You were distracting me from leaving," he grunted, eyes flickering over to the window for a split second. The sirens were almost on them now, and icy irises grew wild. "When did you call them? The police? _When?"_

 _Wait – when did I call the what?_

"I – I didn't call them?" she murmured in confusion, deigning to just fall limp in his grip. He thought she'd called them, and then feed him to keep him placated enough to stick around. He thought she wanted him behind bars or under the eyes of officials in pressed suits. Samara slowly breathed through her nose, dragged out and shallow, as she pretended not to feel the hurt that followed the realisation.

Here she was being a good person and there he was thinking the worst of her – Was that his fault or hers?

Warm breath – oh, the smell of pancakes in the morning – hit her features and she turned back to her captor, eyes widening when she noticed how close he'd gotten. "Of course you didn't," he mocked, and with every word, his breath danced over her cheeks and his blue orbs flashed in warning. "You just kept _quiet_ about the man who held you at knife-point."

Anger flared in her stomach. "I did actually," she replied smoothly – well as smoothly as she could with an arm cutting through her air supply.

The chest hovering a few inches from her own rumbled in a taunting chuckle, and James opened his mouth to make another scathing reply only for the sirens to finally reach them. Both captive and captor couldn't stop their eyes from shooting to the window, taking in the flashing blue and red lights and the way they travelled well _past_ their humble abode.

"Well," Samara croaked, lifting a brow as the sirens began to fade away as steadily as they'd grown louder seconds before. "Would you look at that; they're not coming here. Huh, how weird since you seem so sure I tattled on your ungrateful ass."

She was expecting the arm against her throat to go lax and back away, maybe even for her visitor to appear sheepish as he let out a garbled and no doubt mumbled apology, but once again, James managed to exceed her expectations. The arm pressed harder. With her air suddenly cut off completely, struggling was all she could manage, body writing and arching away from the wall as she clawed at the metal limb separating her from oxygen.

The body before hers was as unforgiving as the silver arm, not even moving as it was kicked and pushed against, and blue eyes were hardening into something frightfully cold. "Don't mock me," James commanded lowly, free hand coming up to splay across her hip and hold it in place. "And stop struggling or I'll press harder and I'm going to assume you don't want that."

"I – I can't…" Samara coughed, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. "Can't _breathe!"_

His lips twitched up, and she felt her stomach drop when she realised he was amused. "That's the idea," he drawled. "Kick me one more time and you won't breathe again. Understood? Maybe you should be more _grateful_ I don't press hard enough to snap anything vital."

 _Look at it this way Sammy; at least he's talking to you in proper sentences!_ The traitorous and weirdly happy voice in the back of her head pointed out in a cheerful voice. Blaming oxygen deprivation for the comment, she ignored the voice and met blue eyes, hoping to find guilt or regret but only seeing something as solid and indestructible as the arm at her throat. He didn't feel bad, or apologetic that he'd barged into her life like a tornado the night before, or even that he was now keeping her on the brink of consciousness with a pressure to her airways.

He didn't look _anything_ except vaguely irritated, and that was no doubt because she was still struggling against him.

So she stopped.

"Good girl," James offered mockingly, eyes drifting over to peek out the window again. His body was rigid and tense, still expecting the cops to turn around and come back for him despite the fact that the sirens had long since died down. "You didn't call them?"

Samara shook her head, not trusting her voice or willing to waste the oxygen she'd stored in her burning lungs.

"And you won't?"

If he'd asked her that same question ten minutes ago, she would've been embarrassed with how quickly and firmly she answered with a negative. But now, with metal leaving marks on her flesh, she wasn't so sure. She'd known he was a threat yes, but she'd stupidly believed that because he had yet to lash out, he was clearly not going too. She'd been stupid enough to think that maybe she could help the wounded animal if she smiled enough.

Caution was easy enough to ignore when you didn't know what could happen when everything went to shit. But now that she knew…

She was scared.

His eyes snapped back to hers when she faltered in her reply, the blue once again resembling a glacier as he leant forward; invading her personal space while also pressing against the bruising column of her throat. "Samara…"

She dropped his gaze, unable to hold it.

"Now, why would I let you go if you're going to call them…" James mused, and the threat hung between them like something dead left out to rot. "You're dangerous to me now, and any sane person would have you removed. _Permanently_ removed."

Samara couldn't stay quiet, no matter how hard she ground her teeth together and how loud her mind howled. "Good thing you're not sane then, huh?"

That was it – the sarcastic comment that would be carved into her gravestone. Her reason for death? She managed to get on a metal armed man's nerves, and crawl under his skin enough for him to take a silver fist to her face. She didn't know how bloody, or how painful the next few minutes were going to be but she made a mental bet that it wasn't going to be an open casket funeral.

If he even left anything for her family to bury….

"Don't call them Samara," James commanded suddenly, and the arm retracted, leaving nothing but swelling marks as shining fingers lifted up her chin. Forced to meet his eyes, she shrunk back under the silent threat there. "Are you going to call them or are you going to unlock your office door so I can have my blade back?"

... _Have you removed. Permanently removed._

"I-I'm going too…" There was a phone in her study, on her desk, and a strong lock on the door. She could slam it behind her and call for help. "I'm going to get your knife from the office for you?" she murmured, trembling even when he backed away with a satisfied nod.

James cocked his head slowly. "Good girl, Samara."

Internally begging for him to stop using her name, she stumbled slightly on her feet once given back control of her body, legs slightly weak underneath her. The muscles were shaking and threatening to give out but she forced them to the small table situated in the corner of the room; bypassing her wallet and sunglasses and instead grabbing her back-up keys.

She hadn't lied when she'd said her study was hard to break into – there were expensive drugs in there, and she couldn't afford thieves to come in and get high on her dime – but she may have been _bending the truth_ a little when she said it was lock currently. She hadn't exactly had the time to lock it the night before, and her main set of keys was probably still on the recliner where she'd left them last night after getting the antibiotics for the man who'd just almost killed her.

But she didn't need him knowing she'd lied, so the keys were needed as a prop, so to speak.

They'd also be useful; allowing her to lock the door _behind her_ without him having another way to get in. They would be the security blanket she needed to grab the phone on her desk and call the authorities. They would be the only thing stopping her bruised neck from turning into a snapped one.

Checking over her shoulder – she needed to know how close he was so she knew how long she had to lock the door – she stumbled over her own feet when she noticed she was walking alone. Her footsteps were the only sound echoing in her ears, and the previously occupied space behind her was empty of another body. _Great, so where the fuck is he now?_ Swallowing down a clump of nerves and ignoring the still oxygen deprived part of her brain that was chanting; _he's stealing one of your knives and sneaking up behind you like a sneaky thing!_ she bit her lower lip.

"James?" Samara whispered his name, almost afraid she'd get an answer before she looked towards the oaken door hovering in front of her nose. Why was she even calling out for him? Did she _want_ him to stop her from barricading herself in the stronghold and calling for help? Pushing down on the handle, she let the door swing open to reveal her darkened office exactly the same way she'd left it before – blade on the floor sadly included.

Instantly, golden eyes flickered to the desk and then to the sleek modern phone adorning one corner of it. The light signalling she had a message was flashing, and she wondered if she could call the cops under the guise of checking her voice mail. Would it work, or would she feel hope bloom in her chest only to feel the blade go _through_ her chest…

Samara hesitated in the doorway, unsure as she slowly took a few steps forwards. _Okay, we can do this Sammy. Just pick up the machete thing, lock the door and call for help. He can't shiv you in the kidney if he doesn't have a shiv, can he? No. See? Logic._

With her eyes glued to the phone, she cautiously bent at the knee, her hand closing around the hilt of the knife in a weak and inexperienced grip. It was stupidly heavy, and as soon as she'd straightened back up, the blade put unneeded strain on her arms. "How unwieldly…" she noticed absently, wrinkling her nose as she juggled the weight about for a few more seconds.

 _It was unwieldly when he threatened to cut open your stomach last night, now was it? So shut up and lock the door before he magically pops up again._

Nodding with a small spark of determination – and a spark of annoyance for the nagging voice in her head – she spun on the balls of her feet; ready to go and lock the door. Ready to go and complete phrase three of her poorly put together and not entirely thought through plan. Ready to be faced with the fucking ninja who had, you guessed it, magically popped up again.

God. Fucking. Damn it.

James' form crowded the doorway, barely letting any of the late morning light flood in behind him to brighten the room. "Samara," he greeted shortly, striding towards her without so much as a hitch in his steps. His silver arm lifted once she was within reach, and as she flinched back, she noted that the blade in her hand suddenly seemed heavier than before.

"Wait, I was just – "

A shock of cold spread out against the heated and burning skin of her bruising neck, and she felt her face contort in surprise. "A cold compress," James grunted lowly, pressing the ice pack more firmly against her throat. "To stop the swelling."

Running on automatic, she lifted a hand to hold the pack – wrapped perfectly in a hand towel – against her skin. "Thank you," she croaked out, her other hand shakingly offering up the blade he'd requested. "Here's your cheese knife…"

He let out another grunt, but silver fingers wound around the hilt, the cool metal brushing against her own hand before he lowered the limb back to his side. She felt her stomach churn at the thought of what was going to happen next – her mind spewing out the different ways he could use the knife she _just passed him_ to tear her apart in the most painful ways humanly possible.

But all he did was offer a quick nod of his head, and another absently muttered; "Good girl," before he disappeared back through the doorway without another glance to where she stood.

Samara watched him go, catching the flashes of tanned skin through his tattered shirt before she let out a sigh. He hadn't been searching her kitchen for a weapon; he'd been looking for something to help the damage he'd just caused on her pale skin. Had he seen the bruises already forming on her neck – she bruised like a banana, sue her – and felt guilt at what he'd done?

 _Could_ he feel guilty? Was that a thing that machete wielding, robot armed, hunky, tan skinned killers could feel?

Sparing the phone on her desk one last, longing look, she pressed the ice pack further against her neck, feeling the tender skin flare in pain before she strode from the room. She didn't know if he could feel it or not, but she was going out on the risk that he could. She was going to give him the benefit of the doubt – again, hah man she was dumb – because she was a sucker for the puzzle hidden behind blue eyes.

Samara could solve a rubix cube in under two minutes, and hunky killers would be no match for her rapier wit. She'd pick him apart, see what made him tick, and then hopefully put him back together with a little less damage. It was a challenge, but she liked to rise up and beat anything thrown her way, so it was a challenge accepted. Now she just had to _fix_ him more or less while simultaneously surviving his company. It wouldn't be too hard.

Right…

Guys?

* * *

 **Here we go guys, hope you enjoy this - this story is starting to pick up, in action and in interest. It's great to see you guys are enjoying this, I do try to write what I think you'd like!**

 **Taila xx**


	6. Oh hon, 'awkward' is an understatement

Silver fingers flexed around the hilt of the blade, the sharp pain that had been absent all morning flaring back to life in the warped join between skin and metal. It was more than easy to ignore; the flash of agony earning nothing more than a grunt and short twist of his lips, before he continued on his way to the kitchen, sword in tow.

It wasn't like there was anything _he_ could do about it anyway.

At the thought, he pointedly avoided the space of wall he'd forced the woman up against, and instead watched the outside world with a sick fascination and bored eye. The doctor could help him – _had_ already helped him before – but he wasn't about to ask, or even demand that she fix his arm again. Not now. Not after he'd turned the slim and pale column of her into a patch work quilt of bruises.

Bucky winced ever so slightly as purpling skin flashed behind his eyes, the same unpleasant feeling from before curling tighter in his chest. When he had held her there, squirming and kicking out against him, he'd expected to feel the usual boredom and disinterest a hit would bring him. Only he hadn't.

He'd felt regret, and he'd felt biting guilt.

And such emotions seemed almost _new_ to his fragile mind set, twists and turns of his heart that he wasn't used too. He knew well enough what pain was, exhaustion, annoyance – even humour – but the guilty knot in his stomach was making him long for the unflinching creature he'd been before his latest mission. Before he'd met the blonde man with his too fond blue eyes, or the woman with a conscience like the clear sky.

And he hated how easy it would be to go back to that. To slaughter the dark haired female, to take what he needed and then venture out again in search for his handler – and then he'd either be given a new mission, or be put back to sleep.

Either option was easier than _this_ – fighting his mind with every decision he had to make.

Before, when he'd had her by the throat, one part of his mind, the training, had been delighted in his actions, positive he was about to bring an end to the threat she posed. But another side had kicked up a fuss, screaming in disgust at the way he treated someone who had shown him only soft smiles and gentle hands. And for some reason, the passionate anger radiating from the voice he'd effectively labelled _James –_ the same name he'd given to the woman – in the safety of his mind had won out over the _Winter Soldiers_ bored, evaluating disagreement.

So he'd let her go, not without another growled threat, before he searched high and low for something cold to stop the damage he'd inflicted upon pale skin. The voice was already disappointed, but had cooled down with the act of kindness, so he'd continued to act indifferent to the female in hopes it would appease it and stop the bitter taste rolling over his tongue.

And how _pathetic_ was that? He knew he wasn't the good guy, knew that he was often the bad one doing what had to be done – so why did he suddenly care about how he came across to the blonde man, the dark haired woman, and the passionate voice in his mind?

Bucky ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, wrinkling his nose when he felt grease line his skin with the action, while the other habitually tightened on the blade. He could hear clear footsteps, someone coming up behind him, and the years of training screamed at him to turn around and _finally_ use the sharpened blade to spill some blood.

Instead all he did was uncaringly dump the knife on the nearest surface, turning to face his companion.

Samara looked meek and small under his eyes, shoulders hunched over protectively, but her own orbs were still alive; challenge dancing in the whiskey irises. "Before all…" she cleared her throat, wincing with the action as it no doubt aggravated the tender skin. "Before all _that_ happened, you said that you were still a little hungry?"

 _What?_

Bucky was tempted, oh so tempted, to yell out and tell the woman that she wasn't meant to still care, that she shouldn't be worrying over him like a mother or a friend. Because she was neither, damn it… But then that damn traitorous voice was whispering again, murmuring that this was good, that she was forgiving him. That he _wanted_ said forgiveness more than he wanted air to breathe.

"And now that all that _has_ happened, do you even care about my wellbeing?"

The question slipped out before he could even think about stopping it, his voice harsh but mind begging for her to give an affirmative. He almost sounded like a child, making sure his mother didn't hate him because he'd broken her favourite vase.

Or like James, making sure that Steve didn't hate him for joining the military and basically leaving him alone.

Bucky blinked. _Steve…_

Samara made a sound of protest, her free hand tightening into a fist and knuckles white as she unwittingly tore him away from his thoughts. "I'm gonna ask again hot-shot, are you hungry or not?" she bit out, careful to watch him as she moved further into the kitchen. She didn't leave her back to him for more than a fraction of a second, and the absence of the feigned trust from before made the knot tighten in his stomach. "Because I freaking want ice-cream – my diet be damned – and I wanna know if I need two bowls or one."

Bucky made his movements pronounced and loud, so the female knew he was approaching as he moved towards her again. "Ice-cream?" he echoed, knowing enough to recognize the treat as something cold and sweet. Something to be enjoyed, rather than used as fuel for the body.

What was the use of that? When – _if –_ his handlers fed him after he woke up, it was only ever practical foods; apples or protein, but never sugar or simple carbohydrates. Never something his brain could mistake as a reward.

"Yes, the infamous cream of iced," Samara mocked, brows high on her features. "I thought it might help my throat, you know, seeing as it's bruising and painful as heck right about now. Wonder who did that?" she muttered under her breath, pointedly avoiding his eyes once the words met the air.

It didn't matter whether she looked or not. He wasn't glaring at her or ready to throw her up against something again, because the voice in his mind was chortling with something akin to pride at her comment. _James_ couldn't help but be pleased she was still making quips at them, seeing it as a sign of her comfort from before and her disbelief that he would lash out at her again. Seeing it as a sign she _was_ showing him forgiveness.

 _But, you know, an apology would probably help as well... hot-shot._

Bucky swallowed down his pride, and smothered the angered voice of the soldier under his guilt. "I apologize for that," he murmured thickly, unsure how he managed to even get the words out through his gritted teeth. "I shouldn't have…"

He was almost ready to take it back, to make a scathing comment or two and assert some appearance of uncaring, but instead he made the mistake of looking up. She was smiling again, that same damned soft grin from before that would crinkle the corners of her eyes and poke dimples into her cheeks. He found the comment dying on his tongue before he even knew what he was going to say, words drying up in the face of the blinding expression.

"It's okay," Samara allowed, and she tugged out an iced container from the metal monster in her kitchen. "I mean if I was smart, I would've called them hours ago, am I right? It was right of you to assume, just not so right to go _straight_ to physical confrontation. Ever heard of one written, two verbal warnings?"

Bucky blinked. "You're a doctor," he noted slowly. "Such a profession requires _some_ level of genius…"

She was still smiling, white teeth peeking through her lips as she made a dismissive sound similar to a snort. "Some rough level of smarts, I suppose yeah, but cosmetic surgery just needs a hint of vanity. I need to understand perfection before I can help create it," she shrugged and fetched two more of those plain white bowls. "Anyway, for the time being let's just assume that I'm a dumb ass, because I've made no phone calls and I haven't sent out any texts…"

Her smile took on the slightest edge of hesitance, almost like she was waiting to be thrown against another surface and screamed at again. Following the advice of his softer spoken side, he tried for a weak smile of his own to banish her doubts. "I already assumed that."

"Oh ouch, my pride," Samara announced dryly, shooting him an unamused glare.

As the female went back to her absent minded pottering, he frowned at her lowered features, wondering at his desire to get back into her good graces. He was a trained fighter, a murderer, skilled at anything that required fists or sharpened steels and bullets, yet here he was with his pride lost somewhere on an alabaster examination chair.

What the hell was he doing here? What the hell was he going to do next?

 _She is not your mission. Showed loyalty. Useful, for now. Keep her alive._

The voice of the soldier wasn't angered anymore, but calm and collected, measuring out the next step that needed to be taken. His mission was still the blonde man, and he still had a bullet with the name _Steven Rogers_ carved into it so to speak. What he should be doing next was hunting him down and eliminating him as he'd been ordered to do; instead of sitting across from a petite woman with intelligent eyes.

But his handler was dead, wasn't he? The man who would tell him what to do and how to act wasn't answering him anymore. Without guidance, how was the solider meant to know where to aim his gun? The blonde _had_ been his mission, and he'd been woken to kill him.

But this man knew who he apparently was… He called him Bucky. Claimed he was his friend. Refused to throw back punches.

His hits had begged for their lives before, pleaded with the humane side that hadn't existed for mercy, but they'd never refused to fight back if they'd had the chance. Faced with death, most grew desperate, but the blonde had been accepting; taking every punch before stammering out through bruised lips that he was with him.

 _I'm with you 'til the end of the line…_

Bucky felt his eyes slip closed, that voice in his mind – _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes –_ whispering that the blonde had stolen his own words from decades ago. Vaguely, barely, some part of him remembered his own lips forming the words but when he tried to reach out for the memory, it ran away from him to hide under years of conditioning by a harsher hand.

Whenever he tried to remember, it was always the same thing. His training would smother the attempt with a barked out order, or his handler would see the signs and strap him into a chair so the pain could start anew; distracting him from whatever it was he was trying to recover.

He fucking hated his training.

* * *

 _What's he even staring at…_

 _Is there something on my face?_

 _Oh my god, dude, just blink or something!_

Samara shifted under the intense blue eyes, unable to look away for more than a second before her own orbs flickered back in submission. He wasn't moving, wasn't speaking – barely looked like he was breathing even – as he stared at where she was sitting, burning holes clear through her and into the walls behind her body.

He wasn't glaring at her though, right? There was that tell tale distracted glaze that showed he was lost in his thoughts rather than in the real world, so she took slight comfort in that…

But what had him so angry?

He had to be glaring at _something_ , and the marks creasing his features weren't exactly laugh lines. Unable to help it, she peeked over her shoulder, staring at the fridge and blank wall with hope that the answer would be plainly written there; only to find nothing but paint and steel gracing the place behind her.

Hesitantly, she looked back to blue eyes. "Uh, James? Buddy ol' pal, what cha doing?" she questioned lightly, her own skittishness from earlier forgotten. She was still watching him carefully of course, but instead of being concerned for her own wellbeing, she was concerned for his. "You're creeping me out a little…"

Unlike last time, he didn't snap back into reality.

Samara hummed nervously, playing with the bowl of ice-cream before gently pushing it across the table to rest before his hands. If he wanted to get lost in thought, that was his problem and she'd leave him too it. After his garbled apology she had hopes she was back on his good side again, and forcing him back to earth with her could easily throw her back in the tank with the shark.

She'd settle for awkward silences rather than metal arms, please and thank you.

Toying with her own melting serving of soft-serve, she absently lifted the spoon to her lips, devouring but not really tasting the frozen treat on its way down. This was honestly her life now; eating ice-cream to sooth the bruised throat she'd received from the assassin sitting across from her with confused blue eyes.

Pretty blue eyes too, if she was being honest, and – no this was important damn it, and not the time to ogle toned muscles and bronzed skin. She had a murderer across from her, for pete's sake…

 _A hot murderer…_

Dropping her spoon, and losing her appetite, she pushed away the bowl with a full blown sigh; hunching over slightly in a bid to protect herself from her own mind. Stupid traitorous little devil that it was. Whiskey eyes shot up to take in the form across from her and she snorted when she saw the same lost look from before.

He wasn't going to be any help then.

Samara shook her head roughly, like a dog trying to dislodge water before she pushed to her feet and stormed across the room. Her guest didn't seem to notice her movements, instead almost ignoring her as she grabbed her diary and read through the day ahead. "Fuck," she hissed out, narrowing her eyes at the pencilled appointment. "Not what I need right now."

Keeping one manicured finger firmly pressed to the page, she reached out for the phone, dialling the number she knew by heart. It was loud in her ear, every beat of the line being connected, and she almost winced with the sound; sure that her guest could hear it. Would he attack her again if he saw her holding a phone? Or would he give her time to explain what she was doing? She sorely hoped it was the latter.

Just as she contemplated hanging up, because she liked her throat and the ability to breathe, a voice spoke down the line. _"Hello, this is Doctor Samara Mason's office. How can I help you today?"_

"Rach? That you?" she breathed out in relief.

The voice on the other side of the phone gained a genuine chirp. _"Oh hey doc, what's up? You're late for once. Should I be worried or congratulate you on finally getting laid?"_ Rachel droned out, a chuckle heard down the line. _"If it's the former; you okay? The latter; was he hot and was it good?"_

Samara felt a smile tug at her lips, shoulders lifting in an awkward shrug as her gaze snapped to attractive features. "I can tell you now that it's not the latter, sorry, my bedsheets have only had me in them for the past few nights," she pouted, knowing the other woman would practically _hear_ the action. "As much as it fucking sucks to say that. Anyway, I wanted to ask about the woman coming in for the appointment in thirty?"

" _Oh sure, doc, what about her?"_ Rachel questioned, and the rustling of papers could be heard in the background.

Samara bit her lip, studying her own writing for a few seconds. "Was she coming to my private office, or to you?" she asked, reaching out to grab a pen next. Please say it wasn't to her house, not when she had the dude from _Assassin's Creed_ glaring at her fridge. "And was it her I'm preforming the nose job on this afternoon?"

Rachel hummed down the line. _"Ms. Adams is coming to your private office for a consultation I believe, and no, she's not the one scheduled for today. It's a Jennifer Atherton you're looking at for the nose job. Remember? That senator's daughter or whatever? Apparently, it's a sweet sixteen birthday present. Fancy that."_

Samara snorted, scribbling down the details. "My parents brought me a car for my sixteenth birthday, not a face" she grumbled back, running a hand over her eyes. "I'll be at the office after I've dealt with Miss Adams. I'll call before I leave – and hey, since I've got you, have you heard anything about some prosthetic arms new on the market? Uh, ones made from metal or a similar alloy?"

The doctor felt more than heard her voice fall into a hushed tone, eyes flicking up to the body still reclining elegantly in one of her dining chairs. He was facing away from her, but occasionally a glint of light would reflect off the metal gracing his arm, dancing in her eyes and blinding her for a split second at a time before dying away again.

" _Metal arms? You been watch Terminator again, doc?"_ Rachel taunted, but the absent sound of her nails hitting a keyboard sounded clear as day. _"No, I've got nothing about it. Why?"_

A frown worked its way onto her lips, and she tore her eyes away from silver and bronze. "No reason. I'll see you this afternoon Rach?"

" _See yah doc!"_

Hanging up the phone, Samara hurried to write down the last few details, running over the names in her head. Usually she was on top of her appointments and the work she needed to do – seeing as there was always so freaking much of it – but the whole home invasion thing had pushed it to the back of her mind. She hadn't even checked her email this morning, damn.

"Who was that?"

Yelping – because who the fuck didn't announce themselves before speaking to a distracted person? – she almost dropped the phone in her hand, glaring up at the man hovering over her. "Okay first, bippity boppity back the fuck up," she snapped, free hand lifting to press against his taunt stomach and push him away. "And secondly, when did you emerge from the land of the fairies?"

James lifted a brow, eyes guarded and wary as they looked between her own orbs and the phone in her hand. The silent question couldn't have been any louder.

"That was Rachel – she's my secretary," Samara explained, rolling her eyes before pointedly taking her hand away from his stomach. She had a strict no touching hot murderous hunks rule. "I have a surgery scheduled for later today, and a woman coming in for an appointment in half an hour. I can't cancel on such short notice, sorry, otherwise I would've, believe me."

James made a small noise in the back of his throat, the sound miles away from his usual disinterested grunt. "You have someone coming here?" he demanded, eyes narrowing slightly. "To this house?"

"Yeah, I guess that some people prefer the privacy my own estate offers them," Samara shrugged, putting the phone away as she glared down at the diary again. "My name may be written on the fence, but no one pays attention to people that come and go, and not everyone wants the world to know they're getting work done. Some people think it's embarrassing…"

The dark haired man relaxed minutely, nothing more than the tension draining from his shoulders, and the fine line of his lips easing out of their deep set frown. "When are they due to arrive?"

"About thirty minutes? We'll be in the office the whole time, and she'll be coming through the front door," she said pointedly, eyes snapping to the archway in the kitchen. "Both myself and the woman won't be in this part of the house for between forty to sixty minutes. I'll be busy with this client, so no one could blame me if I let other things escape my attention."

Samara stood with her usual smile, seeing in the way blue eyes lit up that her message was across. It was blandly obvious anyway. The only way she could've made it clearer is by saying; _dude gap it while I'm busy, then both of us can get out of this scotch free, yeah?_

"Anyway!" she breathed, clapping both her hands together. "I'm going to go have a shower and get dressed!"

Once again, blue eyes lit up. "A shower?" James echoed. "You have one?"

A coy smile tugged at the woman's lips, and she nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, my friend, I have multiple. Like the one in my personal ensuite, and the one in the guest room you slept in last night," Samara pointed out, one finger lifting to gesture to the private part of the house. "Anyway, as I said, I'm off to get ready. Oh, and you turn the shower on by twisting the nozzle to the temperature you want, and the towels should be in the cupboard by the sink. Bye!"

Practically bouncing towards the door, she listened as the body behind her remained still as a grave. She'd given him an out, a way to get away from the scene without any risk to his person or to his privacy. Now all he had to do was take it.

* * *

 **I know this is starting a little slow, but it's one of those stories where I need to establish a few things before we can dive into the nitty gritty! Honestly, I've planned a lot for this story, but never thought about how long this was going to be? What would you guy's like?**

 **And sorry if there's any mistakes? My beta and I didn't catch up today so they were unable to read it over in time for me to post it.**

 **Taila xx**


	7. More than we'd thought

The sharpened tip of the pencil danced over the page, sketching out fine lines under the guidance of an artist's mind and talented eye. Every stroke created more detail, and every harsh flick of the wrist hardened the broad lines of strong shoulders – only adding to the edge of masculinity with each smudge of charcoal.

As the pencil slowed, Steve let out a sigh; staring down wistfully at the careful rendition of his closest childhood friend. He was proud to say he'd gotten most of it right. There were laugh lines around always teasing lips, a soft edge to blue eyes and long lashes framing the crystalline irises and brushing against sculpted cheek bones. Heck, he'd even included the occasional sun spot speckled over the bridge of the man's nose. But despite all the details…

Despite all the details, the drawing ended rather abruptly at the left shoulder.

He wanted to draw, to _remember_ the warm flesh but the only thing flashing behind his eyes was silver, painted with a shock of crimson. All he could see was the soldier when he wanted his friend.

"Everything all right there, Cap?"

Steve lifted his head, lips quirking up by the barest inch. "Yeah I just – I guess I've been better?" he admitted, pushing the sketch away with sad eyes. "Tony, have you ever lost someone important to you?"

The genius cocked a brow in silent judgement. "You're talking to an orphan right now, remember?" he taunted, but the smirk he flashed lacked any real heat. Whatever humour _had_ laced the smile faded however, when earnest brown eyes landed on the abandoned sketch. "So that's him, huh?"

Steve didn't have to ask who the _him_ being referred too was – he'd spilled the beans when he'd shown up on the billionaire's doorstep without warning. "Yeah," he sighed, running a hand through tousled blonde locks. "Yeah, that's him."

"You know, you're really good at the whole," Tony wiggled his fingers in the direction of the drawing, "Art thing, or whatever." The man dropped down next to him after the compliment, attempting a bright smile as he settled into the couch cushions. "Ever get lessons? You should."

Snorting, Steve reached out to snatch up the sketch pad again. "You're rubbish at trying to change the subject," he informed the dark haired man. "A punch to the face would've been subtler than that."

Tony adopted a wounded look, lips parting to let out a dramatic whine as he threw his weight to the side, limbs askew but careful of the fresh war wounds gracing the strong body. The blonde had to lean back to avoid a graceless punch to the face, but despite the near miss he still cracked his first genuine smile of the evening; a chuckle escaping before he could think to stop it.

At the sound, brown eyes peeked out from under a wayward arm. "You laughed," Tony accused poutily, shifting so he could glare – the action once again without any heat. "I'm so glad I amuse you, Rogers."

Steve made a small sound of acknowledgement, but stared at the unfinished sketch with a haunted look tearing at his features. His fingers were itching to finish it, to etch more dark lines into the pages but he didn't know what those lines would create. Even if it ended up as flesh, would that ruin the otherwise perfect picture? Prove to himself that he was holding onto the past…

And if he sketched metal…

Was that the same as giving up on his best friend?

"I think that it's you _accepting_ your best friend," Tony cut in, his lips pursed as he looked up to the ceiling with dark eyes. "You know, accepting that he's changed over the years, just like you have, but not hating him for it? I don't know. I'm bad with emotions, ask anyone."

Steve frowned sharply. "How did you – "

"Thinking out loud, Cap?" Tony grinned, shifting again so he rested closer and next to the pad. Absently the blonde noted that his best friend had a smile similar to the genius's. "Since we're on the topic – and I apparently lack the subtlety to change it – why don't you tell me how the manhunt's going? You've been out of the hospital ever since you realised you could stand without vomiting, but now all you do is mope. That ain't gonna find the guy, you know?"

Steve wrinkled his nose, looking at the face next to his leg, and studying the open expression offered to him. "I know," he allowed, running a hand through his messy hair. "But I've been trying to read that file Natasha gave me, and I can barely get a few sentences in before I feel like being sick."

"That bad huh?"

Steve nodded. "That bad," he murmured absently. "And I still haven't even asked out that girl she wanted me to get with."

Tony's feature contorted into confusion, humour lacing dark irises. "The hell are you on, Cap?" he demanded, chuckling shortly before glancing up. "Was that some weird soldier deal you two made? I give you vital information, you get your ass laid? Is that how you assassin's work? If it is, you lot owe me so much vital information for all the times I got _my_ ass laid."

Chuckling, the super soldier shook his head. "I didn't make the deal, so I don't owe you any vital information," Steve pointed out, mind drifting back to the folder sitting underneath his pillow. There was no safer place for it, and it felt better to read it while wrapped in warmth and able to cry without prying eyes. "I don't know how I meant to find him, Tony, I really don't. He could be anywhere right now."

"Something tells me he isn't gonna go too far," Tony soothed with a shrug, his shoulders nudging the couch cushions. "You remember him pulling you out of the water, right? You said something about a hand before you lost consciousness?"

Steve made a small noise. "Yeah, before I lost the plot I swear I saw his arm grabbing me," he admitted, frowning down at the sketch and then at the real man lying beside him. The billionaire was draped over the couch, the top of his head pressed against the blonde's thigh while the length of his body stretched out until his feet propped up on the couch arm. "He would've had to have purposefully drop down from the carrier though, because when I fell he was holding himself up with a metal bar."

Pulling a face, the genius shifted again until his hands blindly reached up for the pad. "What does the arm even look like?" he murmured, snatching the drawing and staring at it for a few seconds. "Can you finish it for me?"

The request was innocent enough, but Steve breathed out in relief as he nodded and grabbed the sketch back, already gripping his pencil a little tighter. The billionaire currently smiling in thanks was giving him an out – a way to finally finish the picture without having the internal battle to go with it. Right now, he could draw in the metal arm without feeling like he was giving up on the friend he remembered.

As his pencil danced along the paper, he hummed in his throat. "I bet you're internally seething right now," he muttered, brow coming to form a knot over concentrating blue eyes. His hand was drawing the metal without effort, sketching out the hard lines and softer shine like he'd done it a million times before.

"I'm always internally seething," Tony announced dully, cocking a brow up at the man before offering a thousand kilowatt smile. "It's part of my charm – but uh, what am I seething over this time?"

Steve clicked his tongue, reaching out to grab an eraser when he spotted a slight mistake in the curve of a powerful shoulder. "Someone out there, years ago, managed to make a sophisticated prosthetic arm without modern day technology…" he pointed out, almost wanting to grin slyly when the body draped across the couch tensed. "Have you ever tried to make such an arm, Tony?"

"I make robotic suits that fly," Tony pouted, lower lip jutting out as he lifted both hands to cross against his chest. "Who cares if I may or may not have dabbled in making such arms and failed miserably?"

Unable to help it, a small chuckle escaped his lips. "Oh, so there's the truth of it," Steve mocked absently, frowning as he struggled with the shaping of silver fingers. Hands had never been his strong point; everyone had different fingers and could move them with either smooth or jerky movements. Sometimes it was hard to get the grace his friend moved with right on paper. "You hiding those failures away from the world? Or are they tucked away somewhere in your workshop for the day your pride can handle failure again?"

Tony's glare was hot enough to melt steel. "Watch yourself Capiscle, I have a freezer and I'm not afraid to use it," he warned, one finger lifting to hover dangerously close to his nose. If the billionaire so much as _booped_ it, they would have words. "And no they're not here, they're back at the mansion where they're better hidden from nosy assassins. If I kept them here it would take Clint less than a day to find them; the little shit that he is. Did you know that he was freaking _watching_ me through the bloody air vents? The air vents Steve!"

The blood red star was last to be drawn, etched into silver with light movements and barely seen charcoal. "He's always in the vents, it shouldn't really be a shock to you to look up and see an arrow aiming between your eyes."

"Arrow? Why are we talking about arrows?" Tony demanded, voice squeaking a little. "He's aiming _arrows_ at me now!"

Steve smiled softly, leaning back and revealing the gesture to the panicking male. "He's always aiming arrows. That's practically Clint in a nut shell; vents and arrows, arrows and vents," he chimed, absently darkening a few lines before moving onto the smaller details of the arm. "Like a twisted version of nuts and bolts, or the birds and the bees."

Tony snorted out through his nose, and almost managed look embarrassed at the sound. "That created a mental image I could've happily lived without," he shuddered, before lazily stretching out all of his limbs. One of his hands blocked the sketch for a few seconds, and the blonde waited patiently until he could draw again, spending the time staring down at the man with a raised brow. "Hey, you ever imagined Fury in a tutu? I have. Regrets."

"Now I've imagined it as well," Steve groaned, closing his eyes in despair. "Why would you say that?"

Tony shrugged, taking his hands back and settling again in the cushions. "'Cause I can, and inflicting pain on others is one of my favourite pass times," he decided, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. "Almost done up there? I'm not a patient man."

"You've once waited seven hours for some test results," Steve reminded him dryly, sparing brown eyes a quick scolding look. "I'm sure you can wait ten minutes for a drawing. That doesn't look like my phone. New prototype?"

The phone was suddenly thrust into his face. "Yup!" Tony announced happily, worming closer so he could see the screen as well. "Stark Phone new and improved. What do you think? I wanted to add some more apps without making the programmes slow down. You were saying something about fitness ones, so now there's a pedometer and heart rate monitor in the system, and one that can count how many calories you burn per day!"

"Hmm, sounds good, I guess I'll be getting one as soon as it's on the market?"

Tony was still grinning, even as he moved back and started playing around with the phone. "Should be tested and all that soon, might come out just in time for your birthday? How convenient, huh?" he drawled, brow pulled tight over his eyes when he apparently found something he didn't like. "Damn it all, _this_ bloody glitch. Why the hell would the phone think I care about the temperature on another side of the world. I wanna know the temperature on _my_ side of the world. If I wanted to know that it's _expecting showers_ in New Zealand, I would look it up on the weather app…"

"There's a weather app?" Steve questioned, suddenly curious about the applications his own phone currently had. "Does my phone have that? And what is a New Zealand?"

"All phones have it," Tony answered distractedly. "But when you first wake up an idle screen, I want it to say the time, date, notifications and weather in your area. But it hasn't got the whole _in my area_ thing down yet. I'm learning things I didn't care to know."

Steve shook his head. "You care to know everything…"

"Wait you don't know what New Zealand is?" Brown eyes were trained on him in curiosity, phone currently abandoned in favour of the newest topic. "Kiwis? You know… _Sweet as bro?_ Or whatever they say over there. They eat fish and chips and helped in the war? I think they joined the fray about the same time Britain did? Maybe, yeah, that happened."

Steve slowly nodded, some memories flashing behind his eyes. "I think I ran into a few of them," he confessed before shrugging it away and looking back to the sketch. It was as good as it was gonna get. "They didn't call themselves _New Zealanders_ though…"

"Too each their own," Tony allowed, yawning into his hand before giving the phone another quick once over. "You done? It's been more than ten minutes, in my defence Stars and Stripes," he waved a hand demandingly, his other stuffing the phone back into his pocket.

Steve studied the picture for a few more seconds, almost wanting to smile as his best friend grinned in charcoal back at him. The metal arm seemed to somehow fit in perfectly, the unpainted silver startlingly different to the warm skin and eyes. He hadn't coloured the sketch, but was able to perfectly picture the right shade of blue in the man's eyes and the dark chocolate his hair resembled in his head. Sighing, he passed it down to the man next to him with a mumbled; "Have at it then…"

Tony pursed his lips, eyes roaming over the whole picture before settling onto the arm. "Damn that's an impressive memory you've got there," he complimented idly, brow coming closer to his dark eyes as he drew the picture closer to his features. "And that's an impressive arm he's got there. What I wouldn't do to study it for even an hour."

"If you even tried to _peek_ , he'd punch you with it."

Tony looked up with a dry expression, lips moving as he clicked his tongue in reprimand. "Come now, no one would happily punch me. I'm Tony Stark. Everybody loves me – and if they don't, they love my face enough to leave it the hell alone."

"I never said he'd punch your face, Tony," the blonde sighed, grinning when once again the shorter man tensed beside him, fingers tightening on the sketching pad. "Yeah, you don't wanna go near him now do you?"

Tony passed the picture back with a bland smile. "I'm happy in my tower, thank you."

Steve smiled and put the sketch to the side with another sigh, tipping his head back so he could stare up at the ceiling. "So, wise one, what do I do now?" he asked softly, frowning deeply as he heard the world outside waking up. "Do I look for him? And if I do, where do I start? _How_ would I find him? He's an assassin, and if he doesn't want to be found, I'm screwed."

Brown eyes bore into him again, shining with intelligence. "I don't know Rogers, but I'll help anyway I can," Tony promised, sitting up with a groan as one hand floated down to rub at his lower back. "I can fund your little game of hide and seek, and Jarvis isn't exactly _useless_."

Steve nodded.

"Any time you need something, tell me," Tony smiled and turned to leave, muttering about the phone under his breath. "Why another country? Do I look like I'm eating kangaroo or cooking shrimp on the barbe? Honestly."

The blonde shot to his feet when he noticed the voice was growing quieter. "Wait, hey," Steve skidded around the corner, catching the billionaire just before he stepped into the elevator. The genius quirked a brow back, listening somewhat intently. "Thanks, I mean… After New York, and the helicarrier, I just…" he sighed, running both hands over his features. "You don't need to help me, but you are. You're a much better person than I gave you credit for, and I'm sorry…"

Tony grinned. "And you're more than a soldier," he nodded back. "And it's nice to see that you're more than whatever that lab and serum made you. Lunch should be around twelve, if you're hungry. I want pizza so bad my cravings are having cravings."

* * *

 _Right so, fifteen minutes before appointment one, and then surgery at three…_

Samara ran the brush through her hair, wincing when the teeth caught in her wet locks and tugged out knots and strands without mercy. She would've dried it, but seeing as she'd had the whole home invasion thing going on, she was running on too little sleep and too little time. She needed to be presentable and ready to consult in the next fifteen minutes – which meant she had to find _something_ to cover her neck, and read up on her next client enough so that she wasn't going in blind.

And she was ninety-nine point nine percent sure she didn't own any turtle necks – so _shit_ – and she was also sure that she needed more time to read over someone's file than a few minutes. Bloody hell, she didn't even know _why_ she was consulting this woman.

Practically flinging her body towards her closet, she grabbed a random button up shirt and skirt combination, not caring enough to check if it actually went together or clashed horribly before throwing the material over her skin. She may not have had any turtle necks, but she had high collars and fashionable scarves; which would have to do to hide the purple splotches over her neck.

They weren't too bad, the bruises that was, and because she'd iced it so soon the swelling was practically non-existent. Samara studied them for a few beats, absently poking at the skin before wincing and looking around for something to cover it. "Great," she muttered, tying the plain dark grey material around her neck and playing with the edges. "How the hell do I explain these…"

Well, at least her voice wasn't croaky, that was a plus right?

Slipping her feet into some heels, she straightened out her clothing and checked herself once over in the mirror lining the closet door. _Okay so the black skirt clashes a little with the scarf, and the blue shirt wouldn't have been my first option, but screw fashion because now I have ten minutes. Shit a brick._ She absently looked towards her bedroom door as she tied up her hair, leaving a few strands around her face.

Was he out there? She didn't hear the other shower going, not that she was listening for it or anything, and she almost wished she had the courage to go and _look_ for him before her appointment came. But she didn't have it, and her consultation was due to start in nine minutes.

If James was gone, then he was gone. And she was going to be _happy_ about it.

Pushing out into the hallway, she looked up and down the length of space, almost expecting him to jump out from one of the rooms with a raised brow. The man had been in her life for less than twenty four hours, but the lack of a looming presence was already making her chest ache. _What the hell is with_ _ **that**_ _emotions?_ Samara glared at the nearest wall, once again tugging at the scarf before she stormed out of the private sector of her home, moving towards her office and the entrance parlour.

There was still some of the equipment she used on James hanging about on the counter, and she grimaced before hurrying to clean it up. "Bloody assassins, with their literal bloody arms and lack of bloody manners…" she hissed, throwing the used gauze away before wiping her hands of it all.

She had seven and a half minutes…

Samara sent the clock a heated look, before she stalked behind her desk and dropped into the overly comfortable seat with a snort. The files on the woman were to the left of her, waiting for her eyes, and absently she sent up a thanks to her usually over-prepared self for thinking ahead as she plucked them from the neat holder.

"Miss Nina Adams? Already sounds like a posh bitch, but okay, let's go…" she mumbled aloud, flattening out the paper before beginning at the top. Whiskey irises skimmed over the medical history, taking in any allergies and previous cosmetic surgeries before focusing on the reasoning behind the one happening in – _shit fuck prick_ – three minutes. "Skin tags? Really? You're coming to me for that? It would be cheaper with your GP but okay, sure, I'm not arguing against the extra cash."

 _And_ that was the doorbell. Three minutes early too…

Pushing to her feet and once again smoothing down her clothing, she wandered into her parlour with a smile faker than some of the implants she worked with. "Miss Adams?" she asked, swinging the door open with a clean movement.

A red head smiled back, dressed in a matching white pant suit. "Oh hello Doctor," she greeted, her words spilling out like silk. She must have a _blast_ manipulating people and talking for the sheer heck of it with a voice like that. "I'm so happy you could see me today!"

"Likewise," Samara murmured back, opening the door wider and inviting the woman in with a swipe of her hand. "Come in, come in. It's only a consultation today, if I'm correct?" she continued, smiling as the woman wiped her shoes on the mat and removed an expensive pair of shades. "For the removal of a few pesky skin tags?"

 _Nina_ laughed, a light sound that was almost, dare she say it, bubbly. "Oh yes, they are like pests," she allowed, shaking her head as they entered the warm study. "I believe during our last call that you said if it could be done with minimal risk, you may even be able to do it today?"

The woman sounded painfully hopeful, and Samara offered up another killer smile as she sat down with a graceful sweep. "Yes well, it all depends really," she answered absently, picking up the file again. "They're located under your upper arms?"

Miss Adams winced before diving into a story about how hard she'd worked to maintain her figure after her children, both hands waving as she spoke about not being able to show her shapely arms. It was like every other appointment, and Samara bore through it all with a smile bright enough it started to blind her own eyes and soothing nods placed at proper intervals.

A lot of the people coming into her office were either shyly hoping for help about something that embarrassed them, or brash and loud as they complained about something most people wouldn't kick a fuss over. She had yet to work out what type of person Ms. Adams was before the woman was stripping away her top layers, and revealing a body that immediately made a certain green monster rear up in her chest.

She really needed to hit the gym more…

Samara smiled comfortingly as she examined the small tags of skin, their colour slightly darker than the alabaster stretch of muscle under her fingers. They were miniscule and she was surprised the woman had noticed them at all. "I believe I can deal with these today, right now in fact," she murmured, absently shifting the woman's arms about to look closer. "With skin as pale as yours the scars will practically been invisible, not that there will be many scars to begin with…"

Nina beamed. "Brilliant!"

Samara's returning smile made her cheeks hurt, but she continued to go through the notions of being a perfect little doctor as she slapped on some white gloves and got down to business. As she'd said, it was nothing more than a small injection to numb the area before a few nicks with a scalpel eliminated the woman's need for long sleeved shirts.

And then she was gone.

And Samara was alone again.

Damn.

* * *

 **Damn indeed seeing as I almost forgot to update today and that would've sucked. I hate not updating on time – horrible little perfectionist that I am. Once again, my beta and I were unable to catch up; mostly because it's almost midnight here and we both forgot and now he's unavailable – okay he's sleeping, it is like almost midnight and normal people are asleep by now – so I had to read it myself.**

 **Any mistakes, I apologize whole heartedly. Please enjoy!**

 **Taila xx**


	8. You? But I just - What?

Absently playing with the bangs brushing her cheeks, Samara studied the woman through the frosted glass; lips pursed in disagreement. Her previous patient, white suit and all, was reclining elegantly against her car, features contorting as she spoke to whoever was on the other end of her expensive phone.

Something wasn't _sitting_ right.

Not that she was annoyed over the shiny monster taking up space in her driveway, and she wasn't envious about it – she had her own overpriced vehicle sitting in her garage, so middle finger to you good sir – nor was she feeling anything towards it. No, because it was all about the phone call. And those cautious glances the woman kept throwing the empty air around her, like she was expecting an assault from all sides.

"You're being paranoid," Samara breathed out, free hand coming up to click the door's lock into place. "She probably thinks this area is ripe with muggers, is all. It's not like – she didn't _smell_ assassin on me."

Sighing, she ran a hand down her features, the other lifting to tear away the grey strip of material covering her neck. Was this really how she was doomed to spend the next few weeks? Checking over her shoulder every three paces for the government men in suits, or nervously smiling at every patient she helped and every reflection she improved? All because she didn't struggle hard enough when a raging hot assassin had invaded her home one night.

The last thought gave her pause, lips tugging downwards because _damn it all_ , she didn't even have said raging hot assassin anymore.

Her life sucked.

The red head let out a startling, and obnoxious laugh – far too loud for whatever joke she'd been told – before she pocketed the phone again, swaying towards her car. "Have a nice day, ma'am," Samara murmured, listening to purring engine as she pulled away. "And oh, by the way, those incisions will probably start bleeding again with strenuous tasks. Tasks like driving, for example – I hope you and your white suit have a good day."

Stubbornly ignoring the voice singing out how bitter she was, the doctor pointedly cleared her throat and murmured a shut up to her mind, not in the mood to argue with her own head. Whatever adrenaline dealing with the man had given her, or whatever had powered her to smile in the literal face of danger, was beginning to fade; leaving only exhaustion and a sore body behind it as it left her system. She was tired, she was resisting the urge to eat out an ice cream store thanks to the burning in her throat, and she was…

Bored.

 _Okay, your study is a bloody mess and needs to be tided,_ Samara mentally sighed, running both hands down her face and wiping away any semblance of grace. _Surgery this afternoon will no doubt have some paperwork you'll need to deal with, and while you're in a cleaning mood; your life is a mess. Have fun._

It seemed like a short list of things to do – barring that last one which was gonna take some serious time – and would barely keep her busy for more than a few hours, so the reprieve from her thoughts wouldn't last long. Soon she'd have to deal with the long list waiting for approval to run around free reign in her head. Thoughts about stupid assassins with their stupid bright blue eyes. Thoughts about stupid assassins with their even stupider silver arms that was stupid and interesting on all levels – medical mostly though, of course.

Thoughts about…

Samara slammed open the door to her study, wincing as the brass knob bounced from the wall. "I should get a pet," she noted aloud, turning to wrinkle her nose at the small dent in a painted wall. "Something to hold my attention, like a… like a cat or a dog, or something?"

 _Wait. A pet assassin totally counts as a 'something' right? I think it does._

"I think it doesn't," she sung under her breath, shutting the door with exaggerated care. "One; he wasn't a pet, he was your friendly neighbourhood assassin person – completely different, and actually not all that friendly, so I take that back. And two," Samara brandished twin fingers to a photo of her family, staring down the younger version of herself as it sat on her desk. "Two; he doesn't count as a _something_ because anyone with even half a brain knows that assassins are their own breed."

"Anyone with even half a brain should also know when they're not alone."

Samara let out a manly – maybe a little loud but not at all sitting on a higher register than a dog whistle – scream as she staggered backwards; her lower back hitting the desk and sending a shock of pain up the length of her spine. Both of her eyes, wide with surprise, flashed to the blue ones watching her as one hand fluttered up to hover over her pounding heart. "You – but – I was – what?" she stumbled over her words, shocked into confusion by the slight of a silver arm gleaming in the afternoon light.

And man, it was _shiny…_

Surprisingly enough, the man's lips quirked up into a barely there smile. "Do you talk to yourself often?"

"I'll have you know that talking aloud to oneself is supposedly a sign of a higher than average intelligence and…" Samara started to defend herself, lips ready to continue with the tireless spiel when she noticed something new. Sparkling right alongside the silver arm, was a syringe, the needle sharpened to a glittering point. "Hey! You can't just – that's not how – were you going to try and _inject_ me with something?" she demanded, darting forward to snatch up the medical dagger.

"Like I'd waste sedatives on you, they're expensive you know," James drawled, letting her take the syringe without much of an overall fuss. "You don't think I'm friendly?"

The dark haired woman spared him a short look, ready to snap back when she noted what was in his _other_ hand, clutched between long fingers. "You're, uh, friendly enough," she allowed, staring down the small bottle of antibiotics. It was the same one she'd left beside his bed early that morning.

His arm hurt.

Samara swallowed, reaching out to slowly and gently pry the bottle from his fingers. "You should sit down, back up on the table. I'll just…" she waved the hand holding the bottle, smiling before moving to quickly rinse her skin under the faucet. "You should've told me it was bothering you again," she scolded softly over her shoulder, shaking the water from her fingertips.

James blinked, and his eyes snapped down to the bruises on her neck before he hopped up onto the table. "Should've," he echoed with a small shrug, a wince ghosting over his features after the action. "But we had other things to worry about."

What other things was _he_ talking about? Her neck? That was like a three on the worry scale, while his arm was definitely a few more digits up. The skin didn't even hurt anymore; now it was just a slight burning rasp whenever she spoke or swallowed nervously. His arm though, could be hell if left alone long enough – the skin no doubt ready to turn infectious if given the opportunity.

"You should've told me," Samara rehashed quietly, resisting the urge to cover the purpling bruises in an attempt to hide them from the blue. "If – If I can make it better, even just a little bit, I want you to tell me, okay? It beats walking around in agony, doesn't it? Actually no, wait, don't answer that. I don't trust your judgement," she murmured, giving him a small glare when he looked up.

Like before, his lips twitched upwards; nothing more than the slightest tug but it was _something_.

"Aren't you the talkative one?" Samara murmured, licking her lips as she readied the needle with practised ease. It was easier than breathing sometimes, going through the notions of her medical training, and she was able to let her hands move without guiding them; eyes flickering to the man beside her. He wasn't watching her, instead looking out the window with a strange look of – maybe it was contentment; she couldn't really tell. But he wasn't frowning, glaring and or holding a sharpened knife.

It was a win win situation at its finest….

"That comment, by the way," the doctor started up, flicking out a few air bubbles as her eyes fell to the wet locks sitting on his shoulders. "Was meant to goad you into talking. So you know. A conversation would be nice."

James quirked a brow, honest confusion littering his blue orbs. "You told me not to answer," he pointed out, shrugging the flesh shoulder with a challenging edge to the action. He was almost daring her to contradict him, to point out it was a figure of speech and nothing more.

Samara get her lips firmly closed, instead wrinkling her nose in his direction. "You're a party pooper," she informed him, shifting closer with the needle propped up in one hand and her other hovering somewhat uselessly beside his shoulder. "And you're also still in my house. I don't mean to sound rude – I love entertaining guests – but didn't we have a plan about how you _weren't_ meant to be still in my house?"

The man straightened up at the accusation, head cocking to the side as his eyes narrowed; zeroing in on her with a focused intensity. The look made the doctor wilt backwards, gaze dropping in submission as she pretended to check over the dose of the shot in her hand. He could kill with that glare, despite the fact he seemed to prefer knives to do the job.

She heard him take a breath in, and automatically flinched, waiting for the scathing comment to meet the air. What was he going to say? That said plan wasn't going to happen because he was keeping the house, and she was the one leaving? Leaving in a body bag? Because… you know, _death_.

"Your plans are terrible."

The defence was automatic. "Hey!" Samara frowned, resisting the urge to reach out and slap his arm in reprimand. "My plan was perfectly adequate! And we both would've gotten away scot-free if _you_ – " And she did slap him now, not thinking the action through until her hand hit where the bandage had previously been. " – hadn't ruined it and popped up and scared me like a bloody dickbag."

Wait.

Bandages _had been?_

James chuckled, the sound rich and glorious and beautiful and she didn't have time to really bask in it because; bandages _had been_? She darted forward just as the man opened his mouth to speak again, free hand clutching the previously covered skin. "Dickbag. I can't say I've heard that one before."

 _It's healing? The skin is…_ Samara licked her lips, looking up into blue orbs with amazement. "Why is your…"

James followed the previous path of her eyes, his own darkening in something for a split second. "Leave it alone," he instructed firmly, picking up her hand and shifting it to the other shoulder. "This one hurts. Not that one."

She wanted to push – to prod and wait until he gave in and surprised her with the answers she wanted, but instead she only nodded. He'd admitted that his arm was hurting, and some rational part of her mind pointed out he wasn't a man to appreciate weakness. He was an assassin, a military man as she'd assumed, and he wasn't built to admit to something that could make him seem lesser. He was built with iron and steel; an unmoveable fortress in a raging storm.

And she was built with poets apparently; because where the hell had _that_ come from?

"You know," Samara hummed, gently running her fingers over the join between silver and bronze; the action wiping away a few droplets of water. "You never did tell me what you do for a living? I mean, I'm a doctor, as you can tell. But you?"

His neck craned away from the needle when it came closer, muscles and tendons straining like he couldn't bare the sight. "I work for…" James let out a small sound, something breathy and close to a sigh. "The government. A branch the public aren't aware exist," he muttered, throat moving in a swallow as the tip of the needle pierced his skin.

When the man winced, she winced with him; her own skin feeling the sympathetic prick of the needle. "Sounds fancy," she allowed, giving him a thousand kilowatt smile when he managed to look her way. "More entertaining than what I do, in the very least. I would ask if you enjoy your job but you're here and not with them – so maybe not…"

"I'm here because I needed a doctor," James pointed out, rolling his shoulder as the needle was taken away. "Nothing more."

Samara nodded obediently, trying to keep the soothing smile on her lips as she stepped back, expecting the man to hop back down and do his little disappearing act again. Of course though, it was like he knew that that was her expectations, and instead remained happily seated on the alabaster; legs swinging to an unheard beat.

Shooting him a small, somewhat cautious look, she disposed of the needle; resting back against one of the sinks. "Your shirt is torn," she murmured after a few seconds, only really noticing because of the flashes of skin she caught through the black material. "And your pants look like they've seen many better days than today. And you might smell. A little."

James reeled back like he'd been slapped, brow coming to form a knot over blue eyes. "I used your shower," he growled back, flesh hand lifting to curl through the longer strands of dark hair surrounding his features.

" _You_ smell nice," Samara promised, chuckling as watched him annoyingly bat at his damp hair. "But the clothing smells a little musty, and coppery? So, I'm guessing this some… uh blood there," she chuckled weakly, reaching out to absently play with a strip of torn black. Pulling back her fingers, she studied the grime now lacing the pale skin before brandishing them in victory to the man before her. "See?"

James leant closer, studying the dirt before lifting his own hand and repeating the notions she'd gone through. When his own tanned fingers returned darker, his lips tugged into a frown. "And I suppose you just _happen_ to have clothing of my size lying about?"

Samara pulled a face, sticking out her tongue in the most childish action she could muster while in the same room as a _government official._ "Believe it or not, but I just might," she announced, moving to the only other door in the room. "I'm a cosmetic surgeon, yeah? So the people I help are vain, and believe in looking the best they possibly can – which often means tight or expensive clothing. And my sutures or bandages don't always agree with tight or expensive clothing."

"So you have clothing on hand in case they can't wear their own," James realised, nodding in approval at the knowledge.

Samara could feel the heat creeping up her neck at the silent praise, humming in nonchalance as she walked with her back to his eyes. "It's not a million dollar tuxedos and ball gowns," she admitted, opening up the small supply closet and rummaging about through it. "But it'll do. Uh, what size are you exactly? They don't have _hunk_ written on the labels."

A loud sound indicated that the man had jumped from the table and was moving her way, his loud footsteps bouncing from the walls. "Give me a large," he demanded, holding out one hand patiently.

Straightening up, the doctor passed him a large shirt before going back in for more. "Probably should've done this after your shower, you know?" she murmured, not really expecting an answer as she dug about the neat piles. The clothing was cheap, and no doubt uncomfortable, but she wasn't going to go out of her way for patients if they were stupid enough to assume their leather pants were appropriate. "Here are some track pants. No doubt going to look fabulous on you."

A hand took them from her slowly, like he wasn't expecting to get close enough to grab them. "Thank you," James grunted, but he didn't leave, instead hovering close by her side.

Samara resisted the urge to glance up, instead pulling out a dark hoodie as well. "Will this do?" she questioned, giving him a smile as she held it up to him. "If you're feeling very spy-ish I should have a cap and sunglasses around here somewhere. You can stalk the hallways looking like a Walmart James Bond."

James made a sound similar to a snort. "I won't be wandering the halls," he announced. "I need to go somewhere."

"Oh?" Samara rested back on her heels, frowning as the man studied the clothing he'd been given. They weren't going to fit – not well at least. "Do you, uh, do you want a lift? I have to go to surgery soon anyway, and I might as well get there early. Paperwork to be done and all…"

Blue eyes clashed with whiskey. "When can we leave?"

* * *

 _Does he realise how weird he looks?_

Samara tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, turning onto the street the man was gesturing too with a gloved hand while the lights were still green. They'd been sitting in the car for the better part of twenty minutes now, basking in an awkward silence broken only by the occasional mutter from either passenger about the state of other people's driving talents or the city around them. The man beside seemed to be amused by the small things, which was refreshing, and when they'd past a street vendor selling fruit he'd turned in his seat and watched until the cart disappeared.

Licking her lips, she resettled her body in the leather seat, recognizing where they were. "You want to go to a museum?" she questioned gently, lips curved up good naturedly to show the innocence behind the words. "School trip?"

James made a small, barely audible noise. "It's just something I need to do," he murmured back, brow furrowing over dark blue eyes. "Pull over here."

The car glided to a stop, and absently she praised the expensive engine as it idly purred by the curb. "I'll be in surgery for a while…" she warned, still unsure about what was meant to happen now that he was leaving her care. "But, afterwards I'll need to go to the supermarket so I guess I'll meet you there. It'll be the one a block over from here, bright green and slightly blinding. You, uh, you can't miss it."

Donned in a black hoodie – and the cap, he was actually wearing the cap – and black pants, James opened the door and evacuated the vehicle. "One block over. Bright green and blinding," he repeated, looking over the people mulling about almost nervously.

Samara could've sworn panic flashed in the blue.

James looked back towards her, hunching over and resting both hands on the plain silver shell of her car. "Thank you," he tried, the words falling awkwardly from his tongue. "I _will_ see you soon."

She wasn't sure if it was a threat or a promise, but she nodded and adopted a bright smile as he shut the door, beginning to move into the flow of people. His dark clothing drifted across the pavement, and she sighed into the sudden silence; checking over her shoulder before moving back into the endless lines of cars. He was gone, finally, and she'd made a plan to pick him back up again.

She got rid of him.

Only to agree to take him back.

"Gods, he's like a clingy boyfriend," she muttered, rolling her eyes as she started to move further into the city. Her own office wasn't too far away from the centre, as rich and high end as it was, but she still wanted to get there early enough – at least so she could complete more of the paperwork she'd been avoiding for the past few days.

Making the absent note that there seemed to be less of the populate hanging about the street, she was about to shoot forward as the light turned green, only for her phone to ring loudly in the stifling quiet of her car.

"Fuck…" Samara pulled over, cursing her lack of a Bluetooth earpiece as she ripped her phone from her pocket. "This is Samara Masons?"

" _Oh Doc! Got you,"_ Rachel sighed in relief down the phone, sounding slightly manic. _"I've been bombarding your home phone for ages. Then it clicked that you might be on your way here. Early too, might I just add."_

Samara rolled her eyes. "Weren't you complaining this morning about how I hadn't come in like usual, and I was late?" she pointed out, throwing her car into park as she slumped back. The traffic continued beside her, moving in a boring and tedious march across the city. "I thought I might be early this afternoon and get back into your good books."

Rachel snorted. _"You sign my pay checks; trust me, you're in my good books,"_ she promised, chuckling after her own words before continuing onwards in a massive rush. _"Anyway I was trying to get a hold of you to tell you the senator's daughter cancelled. I was freaking waiting for it, you know? With all the shit that happened the other day."_

"The other day?" Samara echoed, straightening up slightly as she slipped the phone between her shoulder and ear. Pulling back into the flow of cars, she waited for her receptionist to answer.

" _Well, uh, yeah?"_ Rachel sounded confused, her voice higher than usual. _"Didn't you watch the news? Or turn on the radio? Or open your laptop? It's been everywhere. SHIELD, this intelligence agency the government runs, it's been wrecked. There were these three giant things in the air yesterday, and then they all started firing at each other and – how did you not see this?"_

Samara studied the museum complex as she pulled into the closest parking space. "I had those freaking sisters remember? The ones who would only get the liposuction if the procedures were all on the same day; one after the other? I was exhausted and went straight home. No television and…" she cleared her throat, pulling out her handbag and locking her car behind her. "Something happened this morning so I didn't check…"

" _Well, when you get home, go online! Everything from their files are on the internet, and there are so many hits on some crap. Did you know there is this girl called Natasha Romanova and she's like some big time spy and bad ass leather chick and she's on our files – "_

"Rachel," Samara cut her down before she could start, weaving through the people clumsily wandering the streets. "A government agency fell _last_ night?"

" _No, this was like two days ago?"_

Samara closed her eyes, going back through the man in black who had turned up; bloodied and dirty on her doorstep. "So no surgery then?" she muttered, taking on a light tone of voice. "I always enjoy having a day away from the office."

Rachel hummed down the line, soothingly content and excited. _"Yeah, no surgery – but seriously listen, that Natasha chick was –_ "

"Thanks Rach," she answered quickly. "But I need to go – tell me later." Hanging up the phone, she pocketed it again, searching through the crowd for a dark hoodie. He'd only had a few minutes, barely long enough to get too far away, especially considering the awkward and stumbling gait he'd adopted once the crowds had become involved. "Shit…"

He can't have actually been wanting to go to a _museum_ could he? This was probably some area nearby where he wanted too actually go, and it was some spy bullshit that he thought would confuse her and – Bingo.

Dark hoodie.

"James," Samara muttered, apologizing as she stepped on multiple toes while hurrying through the crowds. He was disappearing into one of the buildings – he actually wanted to go to a museum? – his head low, and shoulders hunched over defensively. "Damn it, wait up…" she breathed, leaping up the stairs after him and bursting into the building.

He'd been involved. There was no way he wasn't, not in the sudden fall of some shady intelligence agency and with the wounds he'd been sporting. James had something to do with what happened – she knew it.

Samara tried to slow her gait a little, realising she was almost running through a museum as her cheeks heated up in slight embarrassment. Mouthing her apologies to an orderly that was frowning, she continued forward, barely catching the strong lines of dark shoulders as her quarry disappeared into another exhibit. As she passed the entrance, she slowed ever so slightly, eyes catching on the name.

 _The Captain America Exhibit_.

"America's golden boy?" Samara wondered, gently avoiding barrelling over a few excited children as they hurried past her. "Why the hell would – _Hunk_!" she exclaimed, going back into chase mode when she saw a flash of bronzed skin and a dark back. He was standing in front of a glass plane, reading whatever was written across it and she moved closer, hoping to catch him before he moved on again.

"Samara? My goodness, is that you dear?"

"Oh, for fuc – Hello!" Samara turned and offered up a killer smile, lips tugged up until her cheeks hurt and dimples poked holes in the smooth skin. The older woman behind her was cradling a child, a toddler running about her feet and babbling in excitement. "I don't think…"

The woman interrupted her with her own smile, her hands bouncing the baby in her arms. "Oh, I'm a friend of your mothers," she chimed, the smile so damn bright it made the sun seem weak in comparison. "We met a few years ago. Your parents talk about you all the time!"

"I, uh, thank you," Samara tried to keep up the smile, really she did, but it slipped before she could stop it. She hated to think of what her parents said about her, and didn't doubt that even if it appeared light and warm, the words were probably acidic. Her mother was good at making even a compliment backhanded and harsh. "I hate to be rude, but I need to go and…"

The woman waved a hand. "It's okay dear, off you go, I need to take care of these two anyway. The grandchildren," she fondly rolled her eyes, but moved to grab the toddler has he hurried away from her side.

Samara nodded back but turned and headed towards where she'd seen broad shoulders. "James, I need too – " she stopped abruptly when she noticed she was talking to thin air, the space previously occupied now empty. Cursing under her breath, she turned ready to look for him again when the photo grabbed her attention with a terrifying demand.

James…

Frowning, she placed her hand against the picture imprinted on the glass, recognizing the strong brow and muted eyes. It was James no doubt, albeit with shorter hair and something akin to laugh lines around his eyes but the name declared wasn't the one she knew.

Samara blinked in confusion. "Bucky Barnes?"

* * *

 **Oh my goodness…**

 **I won't comment on the chapter since well, you just read it, and you're free to comment on it yourself! I would like to say to a certain guest of this story, that yes I mentioned good ol' NZ, because that's where I live :) I'm a Kiwi, and I'm so unbelievably happy to see another!**

 **Taila xx**


	9. That lying little hunk

Steve let out a curse, rolling his shoulders as the clock innocently ticked by, the seconds drawn out into minutes and the minutes into hours. What was taking so damn long? She'd text and told him she was about to go to the appointment over an hour ago and – across the country or _whatever_ – he was hoping she'd call back before he celebrated his hundredth birthday.

"Did you just swear? Like an actual, honest to god cuss word?"

The blonde man groaned and looked up, catching hell in a rock band shirt strolling towards him. "I didn't curse," Steve lied feebly, shrugging one shoulder. "I just, uh, used creative language?"

Tony cracked a smile. "Well, I wasn't wrong about your high levels of creativity then," he allowed, moving past the soldier with nothing more than an acknowledging tap on his elbow. "But really, mind telling me what _shit_ means? It's just too creative for my lesser mind. I might get lost if I explore it's meaning any further."

"You don't need to be an ass about it," Steve sighed, levelling the man with a glare as he puttered about.

After pressing a solitary button on the machine, and then shoving a cup under it, Tony turned back to his companion and let it do the work as they bantered. "But seeing as my ass is my best feature – I simply must," he breathed out, wrinkling his nose as the scent of coffee filled air. "Can you smell that? Isn't it beautiful…"

Blue eyes flickered to the coffee maker, and the thick liquid spurting out. "Smells like crap."

"You smell like crap," Tony countered without a blink. "And I'll have you know this smells like dreams and happiness."

Steve waved a hand and ended the teasing, not really in the mood to struggle as he tried to keep up with the man's wit. He could use the internet to help him adjust to the new world all he wanted; but nothing would ever help him with the whole Tony problem, no matter how hard he googled for answers. And he googled _hard._

"Oh see, dreams and happiness," Tony sighed, cup lifted to his nose as he breathed in the aroma. "Speaking of my dreams – you cursed, so thank you, but why?"

The blonde pulled a face. "Hearing me curse was one of your dreams?"

"A lifelong one yes," Tony mocked with a roll of his eyes, leaning against the kitchen counter. "And now it's be fulfilled. Good for me. Moving onto the _why_ you suddenly have the vocabulary of a sailor...?"

The not so subtle push made the solider sigh, one hand lifting to rub his eyes. "We have a lead. On Bucky," he admitted after a few silent seconds. "It's nothing big – a few cameras caught him in a residential neighbourhood back in Washington. I asked Natasha to check it out and she hadn't called me back yet."

Tony made a small noise in the back of his throat, and a finger suddenly jabbed his side. "Hey, I thought we were in this whole _ex best friend turned cyborg assassin_ thing together? Now you're going around behind my back? Ouch," he whined, adopting a playfully hurt look as he poked him again.

Steve winced. "Okay, actual _ouch,"_ he muttered, swatting away a calloused hand. "I got shot remember? No poking. And, I didn't have time to talk with you. I may have panicked, and I may have called Natasha in said panic. I didn't really have any time in-between to remember our sudden partnership and call you as well."

"You don't think of me when you're panicking? Double ouch. I ought to poke you again as punishment."

Steve lowered his elbow until it rested protectively against his previously injured side. "No poking," he rehashed, shooting the billionaire a warning look. "Do you wanna know about the lead or not?"

Tony's grin was easy, but there was an underlying sheen of concern dancing through his eyes as he nodded with a; "Hit me, Capsicle." He looked towards blue eyes expectantly, coffee almost to his lips before he faltered. "Well, don't actually _hit_ _me._ You may be an old man and freshly out of the hospital, but I'm still wanting to avoid knowing what it's like to be sucker punched by you. So keep your hands to yourself. Well, not to yourself. Touching is fine. I like touching."

Steve stared.

"Heh, uh, yeah I wanna know?" the billionaire hid behind his cup, snorting into the caramel coloured depths. "So, you know, hit me – or just tell me. Whatever."

Waiting to make sure the man was finished with whatever in hell that ramble had been, Steve straightened up. "When you offered Jarvis's help, I immediately asked him to keep an eye on all the cameras he had available, and to scroll through the feeds from the past few days. Just in case, you know? And well, apparently someone's smiling down on me because in under an hour, Jarvis was giving me the news that he'd found Bucky heading into a residential area back in Washington."

Tony had already perked up, eyes bright. "No way," he breathed, grinning as he lowered the cup again. "We caught a break already and SHIELD only fell what? Twenty four hours ago? This is brilliant."

Steve winced with the reminder of the incident, side twinging in pain, before he nodded. "It must have been last night after it all happened, before I, uh, discharged myself from the hospital and nabbed a flight here. We managed to follow him with the cameras, but there is a gap and he doesn't reappear on the other side. It's left us with a few houses he could've gone too."

"And?" Tony shifted so he was facing the solider fully, caffeine abandoned. "What use would he have for someone in a town house? Other than a roof over his head."

" _It was in a richer district sir,"_ Jarvis announced. _"Closer to the core of the city, where most of houses are occupied by faces of the government, lawyers, doctors."_

Tony nodded. "So he's looking for someone high up enough on the hierarchy to use as a hostage then?" he guessed, looking towards the blonde, almost as though he was searching for approval.

Steve gave it to him. "I thought so too, but… Jarvis, do you mind?"

" _I believe he may have gone a Dr. Masons, sir."_ Alongside the voice, an idle hum sounded as a screen lowered from the ceiling and hovered before them, lighting up with the webpage for said doctor. _"Miss Masons is a plastic surgeon, and lives in the 'blind spot.' I believe that because Mister Barnes was injured, he may have taken up residence here."_

The genius adopted a sly look. "Did you say _miss?_ As in unmarried and female?"

Steve groaned, "Tony, no."

"Tony, yes."

"How about; Tony, later?"

The billionaire stared for a few seconds. "You sell a hard bargain, Rogers," he sighed before the smile slipped, his calculating look back in place as though it never left. "Alright, so what did we do with this information? Panic and then what? We gave it to Nat?" he questioned, any humour gone as he looked to the soldier for his answer, going over what they'd already discussed.

"We did, yeah," Steve admitted, rubbing the back of his neck and trying his damnedest not to feel like a bug under a microscope. "For all I know, she's still in that area and she's better at the undercover thing than I am. She would've been able to hide well enough so even if he saw her, he might not recognize her. And if he did, she might've had the ability to talk him down."

Tony made another noise. "I've been reading up on our little ghosty-goo, and trust me; I don't think even _she_ has the ability to do that," he murmured, trying for a supportive smile. "I think if Barnes is gonna listen to anyone, it's going to be you."

"He didn't before," Steve whispered, only blinking when a warm hand burnt a hole in his long sleeves.

"I thought we'd already established the whole bit about how he pulled you from the water, saving your life may I just add, and the other bit about HYDRA and their assholiness?" Tony quipped back, lifting one brow in a fluid motion. "So, I'll say it again, if anyone can get through to him, it's you okay? Drop your kicked puppy look and tell me how we're dealing with this problem?"

Steve frowned, gaining the familiar pinch between his brows. "Assholiness isn't a word…" he argued weakly, blanching at the glare sent his way.

"I swear to all that is holy, Rogers…"

Clearing his throat, the blonde pretended to study the countertop. "Bucky went in early this morning, if we're guessing right, so there was a chance he was still there. Natasha wanted to check it out," Steve fiddled with his fingers. "She said that because the doctor caters to the rich it wouldn't be too hard to get an _emergency_ appointment? Too play up her problem and get in early, but she said she had a plan if that didn't work."

"Well? _Did_ it work?" Tony demanded, almost looking like he was on the edge of his seat.

Steve adopted a smile. "She got in. Rang up the doctor's secretary and bribed her into switching out an appointment. Can – can you really do that in this time; cut through the line ahead of people because you have money?"

"Yes, definitely, all the yes."

The smile dropped. "That doesn't seem fair," Steve murmured, blinking back his inability to accept the greed of this time. No one did something simply to see someone _else_ benefit. Not anymore. "Natasha text me over an hour ago saying she was at the house. Nothing seemed wrong, but she hasn't messaged me back yet."

Tony sunk back into his seat, nodding all the while as he lifted the mug to his lips. "You look like you have something shoved up – shoved up somewhere something shouldn't be shoved," he finished with a small, smug smile. "What's bothering you, Cap?"

"That was a tongue twister," Steve joked lamely, trying for a similar smile, but not managing to replicate the easy grin the billionaire wore. His own lips fell short, and he coughed lightly, slumping back as well. "I'm still not used to… you know, all of this. Back when I was growing up; you waited months for an appointment with a doctor. People died waiting. But now, if you throw some money at someone, you can beat the man who's dying…"

The warm hand was back, pressing against his forearm. "Moral compass going haywire hmm?" Tony soothed, chuckling lightly before pushing up to his feet. "I hate to say it, Rogers, really – but that's how the world evolved. You want to be someone? You need to _pay_ someone."

Steve frowned, watching the man wander back into the kitchen with an easy expression. "Who did you pay then?" he muttered, looking back down to the countertop, hoping to avoid a glare.

"Oh me? I'm a special case," Tony announced. "I was born into it and have the brains of a freaking god. Also the face of one."

The blonde man couldn't help but quirk up an amused brow. "And what about me?" he questioned, leaning across the counter and pinning the genius with a levelled stare. "I didn't pay to join the military, or to be the white mouse injected with super soldier serum. I'm someone, but I didn't pay another."

Tony turned, grinning like he'd expected the question. "Remember when I said special case? You may not have the brains of a freaking god, but you have the heart of one. You're a literal saint, Rogers. I feel guilty just making eye contact with you sometimes," he teased, wrinkling his nose and moving towards the kitchen. "Hungry?"

"Oh yeah, yes I am," Steve answered quickly, waving a hand before focusing on the other words. "You didn't mention my strength, or any of my other advancements?" he pointed out, unable to help it when his voice dropped to a hushed tone. He didn't want to sound so small, so meek, but he couldn't help it; eyes wide and hopeful as he waited for his answer.

Rustling sounded, the dark head disappearing into the steel fridge. "Because they're not the someone I'm focusing on. They're _you_ , sure, but they're not your only features. And definitely not the best ones," Tony excused, popping back up with a victorious smile. "I found pesto. Think if I put some pasta on boil I'll manage to make a meal, or burn the place down?"

"Make a meal?"

"Aw, you're only saying that because you're hungry," Tony winked but pushed to his feet with a small groan. "Oh I'm too old for this crap – and not drunk enough for whatever heart to heart you're trying for, so shut up."

Steve flushed slightly. "I'm not looking for a heart to heart Tony, you know I avoid them about as much as you do."

"And you can't even get drunk," Tony spluttered, filling a small deep pan with water and putting it onto the stove cautiously. He wrung his hands as he started up the hotplate, almost looking like he was expecting the world to burn around him. "Which means the ones you can't avoid must suck. See, if I sense one coming – which I totally can, emotions have a smell to them – I down the nearest whiskey and pray that my brain to mouth filter stays with me for a little longer."

The soldier smiled absently, standing and flitting over to the smaller male's side. "I got it," he allowed, gently pushing the billionaire back to his seat. "I hate to break it to you, but you don't have a brain to mouth filter even when you aren't drunk."

"You're a terrible conversationalist."

Turning at the accusation, Steve's smile took on a genuine edge and he opened his mouth ready to reply when – "What the _hell_ is that noise?" he asked, a knot forming between his brow as a shrieking ring echoed around him.

Tony looked around, deep brown eyes landing on the phone vibrating closer and closer to the edge of the counter. "Is that yours, Capsicle?" he demanded, jerking his chin towards the cell. "It's probably our little Natty. Jarvis hook me up would you?"

The butler answered with an affirmative, and soon another voice was buzzing through the room.

" _Steve?"_

The blonde in question might have jumped at the sudden voice. "Natasha?" he questioned, staring up at the ceiling in muted surprise. He really needed to stop being so shocked when the genius snatched the floor out from under him. "I take it the appointment just finished then?"

A snort sounded. _"Yes, and I can't feel my cheeks. I've never smiled so much in my life,"_ the red head grumbled, an absent wind whistling down the line as well. _"At least the lovely doctor smiled back."_

Steve made a sound. "So you met her? Did you see Bucky?"

" _Sorry Steve, but I didn't,"_ Natasha apologized roughly. _"And Masons didn't seem to be hiding anything. Maybe a terrible sense of fashion but that's about it. Woman didn't really understand that some colours just don't match you know? Honestly. I had to fight back a wince when I saw her scarf."_

Tony chuckled, covering his mouth to muffle the sound somewhat. The soldier sent him a small smile, acknowledging his humour before he let the serious frown encompass his lips. "She wasn't injured?"

" _Didn't seem to be? Calm, collected, and almost as good as I was at faking a smile,"_ Natasha allowed. _"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if she did help him – it would've been a planned affair and he's probably long gone. But the thing is; I checked her background, there's no way she's associated with HYDRA, so there's no chance that he'd be commanded to find her if he's injured,"_ she sighed, and the wind howled behind her again. _"And she's watching me from the window right now…"_

Steve ran a hand over his face, scrubbing down before running it through his hair. The water started to bubble behind him. "You're still there? At her office?" he asked, moving to drop some spiralling pasta into the pot.

" _Yeah, I said I'd call you as soon as it ended remembered? I'll admit though; my arm hurts."_

"Your arm?"

Natasha tutted, sounding utterly disappointed. _"You heard the part this morning when I told you I was already technically a patient in her files right? Nina Adams needed some work a few years back. Cosmetic, to hide a pesky little birthmark. Any marks that can be used to force you to stand out are bad,"_ she reminded them both. _"And while its location would make you think it wouldn't matter in the long run – turns out it did matter and I almost got shot with my pants down."_

Entire body wiggling like he could barely contain the question; Tony finally spoke up. "Did you try to sex someone but they saw it and recognized you?" he giggled before clearing his throat. "Uh, I didn't make that sound. It was Rogers."

" _Stark, that you?"_

Tony rolled his eyes, looking to the soldier like they were sharing an old joke. "Who else would it be? I'm saving the Captain's ass because it's almost better than my own. _Almost,_ " he warned with a pointed finger. "So was the single doctor hot? Please say she was."

Natasha chuckled richly. _"Very,"_ she purred, humouring the genius like a mother would her child. _"If she hadn't believed I was dealing with a divorce and that I had a few ankle biters back at home – I'd do her. Only if she took the scarf off though."_

"You're hung up about that scarf," Steve muttered.

" _It really didn't work with her skirt."_

Steve sighed, but a smile grew on his features despite the bad news. "Okay, we understand. But you said your arm hurts? Did you get hurt? Is everything okay...?" he asked gently, stirring the pasta as he looked up. "It's not bad is it?"

" _Yes I'm fine, don't worry. I needed a reason to check her out. I have some skin tags on my upper arms, barely noticeable and they don't even bother me,"_ Natasha snorted. _"But once upon a time, I mentioned it – so now upon a time I got them removed. I was almost expecting her to throw up some heat about that but she was distracted._

Steve mouthed the words; 'skin tags' to his companion in confusion because _huh?_ before looking back to the ceiling. He didn't know where else to look, and dark brown eyes weren't an option. "Distracted?"

" _Like most people would be after the fall of an entire government branch. I'm surprised she didn't recognize me."_

Giving the woman that, Steve nodded and hurried the pasta away from the burner when the water bubbled a little too high. Settling it on the counter, he absently played with the pesto the genius had pulled out. "Thank you, really. You didn't have to do that, and I know you're trying to make another life for yourself. I didn't mean to hold you back."

Natasha laughed, the sound sudden and loud. _"A few hours aren't going to ruin everything, Steve. I'll try get to the tower later okay? Maybe we'll bump into each other. You never know."_

"Bye gingersnaps!"

Steve rolled his eyes as the dial tone sounded, before the phone call was cut short, leaving them both in silence. The genius never could handle not getting the last word in. "How big is this tower if there's only a chance of us bumping into each other?" he murmured after a few seconds.

Tony winked. "It's big enough," he soothed before paling. "And I promise it's not overcompensating for anything."

The soldier grinned, emptying both the pasta and pesto into a bowl and beginning to mix. "Sure, Tony, sure."

* * *

Tugging on the brim of the dark cap, Bucky lowered it further over his eyes; hoping to cover up the blue orbs as they danced over the museum. He couldn't keep everyone in his sight, no matter how he spun or twisted, and the knowledge that he couldn't protect every side was making his stomach twist nervously.

What if someone came for him? Cornered him like a wild animal and started prodding at him with steel? He wouldn't even have the grounds to defend himself, not with the healing injury on his flesh shoulder and a distinct lack of weaponry on his person.

If someone came for him now…

Bucky shook his head, shaking away the thoughts as someone brushed by him, their shoulder ghosting along his as they shot him a sideways look. If someone came for him now he'd run. Back towards where the silver car had idled by the curb, no doubt with the useless hope it would still be there. And when he noted he was alone – he'd run to the clean cut home back in that high-end neighbourhood.

Samara would keep him safe, wouldn't she? She'd done it before, and the worry in her eyes before he'd thrown her against the wall had been for _his_ wellbeing instead of her own.

 _Young. Trusting. Easy to manipulate._

Another stranger brushed past him, their arm sweeping alongside his silver one and he flinched back; shoulders rounding over into a protective hunch. The sudden movement earned him nothing but a confused glare and muttered; " _What's your problem?"_ before the man wandered back into the crowds; already forgetting about the male behind him with wide startled eyes.

Gritting his teeth, and relaxing his clenched hands, Bucky tried to force his attention back to the photo hovering on the wall before him. His eyes drifted over the smiling faces and military coats, thoughts running somewhat rampart as his own blue orbs stared back at him in black and white. He didn't remember the picture ever being taken, couldn't remember smiling at the camera with his arms around the muscular blonde's shoulder and the multiple badges on his chest. And he didn't remember the other men surrounding him with matching grins, all wrapped around one another in a show of companionship.

The photo had a title and a date, both proving to be all the more confusing. _The Howling Commandos._ He didn't remember that either – maybe he should get the doctor to check his head next? If she even showed at the store like she claimed she would.

"Okay I'll admit, when I saw you staring for so long at one picture; I was curious. Now I'm just annoyed. Are you really incapable of taking one photo and _not_ looking like sex on legs? Just one to prove you're human like the rest of us?"

Bucky startled to the side, eyes flashing from the words covering his own history to the woman hovering close to his shoulder. He hadn't even noticed her approach, too caught up in his own world. "Samara…" he murmured, taking in the red warming her cheeks and the fury glancing between her eyes.

Well, she hadn't been planning on leaving him in the middle of nowhere then.

At least he had that.

The thought had barely given his tightening lungs a taste of air before golden eyes were on him, alight with anger and turning into molten pools. "Yes, Bucky?" she asked lightly, her tone deceptively casual despite the way her chest was heaving.

His lips dropped to create a perfect circle, mind once again forced into surprise as the name hung between them. There it was again. That stupid bloody name and the rush of guilt and confusion that followed behind it – but now it was being said in a feminine voice, one that was dangerously too close to silk for his liking.

He wasn't sure if he preferred the betrayal in her voice, or the pain in Roger's as they said it; but both options made his chest hurt.

"I thought you said you had surgery today?" he murmured, turning to face her instead of the photograph. There was no chance she didn't know who he… who he _apparently_ was, but the longer she looked at him instead of the picture, the better.

Samara let out a small sigh, licking her lips. "The senator is hiding his daughter behind his thousand dollar alarm system," she breathed out, chuckling without any humour. "I'm not sure you've heard, but yesterday one of our countries intelligence agencies fell. Personally I'd never heard of whatever the hell a SHIELD is, but then again neither had most of the world, so I don't feel so bad."

Bucky blinked slowly. "Oh?" he echoed.

"Oh, indeed…"

The anger was simmering, burning into something brighter and he grimaced. "This conversation is going to end badly for me," he muttered, shaking his head. "Isn't it?"

Samara's lips moved, tugged into her mouth. "Very, _very_ badly."

"Any way I'll get out with my pride intact?"

A startled laugh sounded, and the doctor lowered her head, shoulders shaking. "Okay so what? You get snarky when you're feeling threatened? Is that how you work?" she taunted, and like all the previous times, her anger faded into a smile. "Are you – don't look so damned pleased with yourself Barnes. I'm still mad. But I'm also tired, and I'm hungry so my righteous fury is failing me a little."

Bucky tried not to look so _damned pleased with himself_ but the slight smirk tugging at his lips felt like it belonged. He won the argument without even starting it.

"Okay okay, but we need to talk about this. I'm not even kidding."

 _And_ , there went his smile.

"Buck – Sorry, uh, Bucky I meant," Samara frowned at the floor, eyes flitting up to the photograph before drifting back to his face. "That part of the exhibit, the bit about you, it said that you were – that you – everyone thinks you're dead?" she finished, throwing her hands out nervously before playing with the ends of her sleeves. "I don't wanna pry but… No I guess I can't say that and then pry but you – I just don't get whatever the hell is going on?"

The last words sounded almost desperate, and her eyes had turned from raging gold to a calm whiskey. Bucky watched her fidget for a few seconds longer before he shook his head. "I'm hungry. You said you wanted to grab something from the store?"

"Hungry and also bad at avoiding my questions," Samara murmured, but the annoyance was exhausted in her posture. "Okay, sure why not. We'll get the groceries, and then pick up some take out because you're sitting your ass down and telling me everything. No excuses."

"Does my knife count as an excuse?"

The words almost slipped out, like an idle threat, but other than shooting him a wary glance, she didn't do any more. He almost felt bad for the cheap shot when she absently shifted to the side; leaning away from him, but then the soldier was screaming in his mind; basking in the fear lingering.

He still had her – whether it was because she was helping out of kindness or out of fear. It didn't matter which option anyway. He was hunting down whatever remained of HYDRA and the good doctor? Well.

She was coming with him.

* * *

 **Okay, because I'm a dweeb I got my time line a little muddled. All the helicarriers fell the day before this yeah? But I accidently said it was two days ago. I'll go fix it. Please don't shoot me.**

 **Unless you're Bucky. Then at least I get to stare at something pretty while I die #worthit**

 **Taila xx**


	10. It wasn't all a lie, so there's that?

"And is that all today?"

Samara offered up a blinding smile at the question, nodding wildly to the woman hiding behind the counter. "Yes, thank you," she breathed, holding up the packaged protein like it was gift. "Have a good day."

Throwing the fish into the cart, she hurried away from the older woman, ducking back into the fresh produce with a relieved sigh. It felt weird; too speak so openly when she'd spent the last twenty minutes playing the silent game with her brooding companion. And, dare she say it, she was almost missing the quiet. The supermarket was too loud, bustling with constant movement, and her fingers twitched with the desire to push the trolley back _out_ the door.

She never did like crowds much…

Holding onto the edge of the metal with one hand, she frowned at the man as she came back to his side, trying to piece together the thoughts written across his face. She may have broken the silence by speaking to the woman before, but between them, it was still raw; the edges of whatever familiarity they'd gained torn by blatant and unhidden distrust.

So she stayed quiet, studying the man as she waited to be noticed. It was easier to try and read the truth from his features than it was too come out and ask him anyway. It was easier to watch the light play on the planes of his cheeks than ask how he survived falling from that train.

Feeling her eyes – no way he _couldn't_ have, she was practically gaping – Bucky turned and offered up a weak nod. "They're ripe," he noted absently, squeezing a few dark fruits in his gloved hand. The doctor waited for the metal to grip a little too hard and send the purple flesh everywhere, but it remained deceptively gentle, rolling the fruit around curiously. "A few of them, anyway."

 _He broke first._

Samara licked her lips, reaching out for the pile of small plastic bags that decorated the section. "Did you wanna grab a few then?" she tried, dangling the baggie before him like a peace offering. "I can never tell if they're good or not."

Bucky stared at the bag before slowly reaching out for it, chin moving in what must have been a nod.

"Thanks," she murmured, turning to look over the store now that her companion was occupied. It wasn't overly busy – small miracles – but there were still people milling about; haggard looking mothers trying to squeeze in the shopping before school ended, or student cramming noodles galore into their carts being the larger percentage of them.

But despite there being barely a dozen people in her view, her spine still shook with an uneasy shudder. "I don't like crowds. Never could get on the whole _people_ bandwagon," Samara muttered, shaking out the worry tightening her shoulders. "I almost feel trapped; you know?"

She felt, more than saw, the man beside her tense at the comment.

"I know," Bucky allowed, and with a gentle press against her side, had her attention. "How many plums do you want?"

Checking the already laden bag, she tried for a smile. "However many you want, I don't mind," she waved aside, turning to check the others around them both. "Hey, uh, what did – what did you want me to call you?"

The bag, almost bursting – _someone_ likes plums – was carefully placed in the trolley, and a frown was aimed in her direction. "What do you mean?" Bucky asked, cocking his head in a miniscule movement.

"It's just – " Samara hummed, running a hand through her hair. "James? Bucky? Sergeant Barnes? A strange and catchy combination of the three? I don't want to – I don't want to assume but you…" she breathed out in frustration when the words didn't come, the air sounding in a sharp sigh. "You always took a few seconds to respond to James, almost like someone would to an unwanted pet name."

Like she did when her mother called her _pumpkin_ or _sweetie_ …

His throat moved in a swallow, and then his attention was elsewhere, picking up a package of dates with feigned interest. "Bucky," he grunted after a few seconds. "No one but my mother called me James."

So she wasn't the only one who detested motherly pet names then? Good.

"I was almost hoping you'd pick Sergeant Barnes," she teased, hoping to ease the annoyed confusion painting his features. He'd pulled a similar face before, like his tongue had spat out words without his permission, lips betraying him by forming the sounds he hadn't allowed. The instant look of _did I just say that?_ was almost cute – in his leather wrapped and brooding way.

Bucky snorted. "I haven't heard that in – in a while," he excused, shaking the dates in her direction. With her sigh and nod acting as approval, he dropped it next to his plums before moving onto something else. "What about you?"

Samara frowned at that. "What about me what?"

"What do you want me to call you?"

Whiskey widened in realisation, before she quickly lowered them, taking in what he was holding onto now – _and there is no way you've never seen an apple before, wipe that look of amazement off your face; you're fooling no one –_ in hopes to distract them both. "I don't really – my friends call me – well, Rachel calls me doc? But I don't think…"

Cue the second frustrated sigh of the conversation. "You've called me Samara before, so you might as well stick to that?" she shrugged, not really wanting to add that her friends – all _one_ of them – called her different variations of her medical degree. It was either doc or doctor at work, and the home life only had kitchen appliances and whoever was on the television screen filling up the silence. There was no other half to give her an annoying nickname she secretly loved, no family to toss out an affectionate insult.

Unless _pumpkin_ could be counted as an insult…

"Samara then," Bucky decided, nodding before sending her a weak smile, eyes almost looking pained with the gesture. "Judging by the look you're giving me; I'm not distracting you very well."

She blinked at him, unimpressed by both the attempts to distract her and the attempts to smile. "You've been trying to distract me? No, it couldn't be."

Blue orbs disappeared for a few seconds, unfairly delicate lashes casting shadows on his cheeks before they snapped back open; painted in determination. Setting the fruit back down, Bucky stepped back, waving for her to continue forward. "You have questions," he accused, lips set in a harsh line. The next words to leave his mouth must've been poisonous, if his expression after saying them was any indication. "Ask me, then."

Samara decided to waste nothing, time and tact included. "You're supposed to be dead."

"That's not a question."

Both comments were more a challenge than an observation, and they stared each other down for the next few seconds, unaware of life continuing outside of their conversation. The doctor was about three seconds away from hiding in sheer regret when the man snorted, looking away as his eyes lost their heat. "It's a long story," he murmured, brow flickering down for a couple beats of silence.

"That's good then," Samara started. "We haven't even gotten half way through our shopping. I need the entertainment," she drawled, beginning to push the trolley forward again. One wheel squeaked and broke whatever moment had dawned on them, and the man sighed, dropping his eyes and instead watching the ground pass beneath his feet. "Considering that its, you know, _entertaining._ I'm gonna go ahead and warn you now; I cried at _Finding Nemo_. Seriously there was ice cream and an empty box of tissue as evidence the next day. I don't do angst."

Bucky made a small noise, something torn between a chuckle and a second sigh. "I don't know what that is," he admitted quietly before looking up, lips solidifying in a white line. "But this isn't a happy story, Samara, so I'm… I'm gonna go ahead and warn you now."

The repeat of her words and the use of her name made her smile through the grimace. "Oh, that's – yay?"

Blue eyes blinked in passing humour. "Would you like to grab some more ice cream?" Bucky offered absently, one brow lifting in a feigned show of nonchalance. He was attempting the perfect show of contentment; his shoulders pressed back and hands resting idly in the pockets of his hoodie, but he looked miles away from comfortable. There was a tightness lingering in the corners of his lips and eyes, aging the attractive features peeking out from under the dark hat and dulling the sapphire orbs.

It was a nice try though, she'd give him that and – gods, was he still wearing that stupid thing?

Samara swallowed and tried for a lacklustre casualness of her own, reaching out to snatch the cap from his head. "I already have some at home, remember?" she pointed out, sticking the hat in the confines of her purse. She'd like to see him get it now. "But tissues are always handy, so come on, let's keep moving."

Obediently following on her heels, the military man was a constant presence at her back as she walked through the aisles, idly drawing things down from the shelves. It took him a few minutes to speak, but the reprieve was graciously accepted and she all but basked in the silence, taking the time to catch her breath and sort through whatever mess the conversation had left behind.

So, he was willing to answer questions, but to what degree? And how could she trust anything he told her – anything he says, anything he does, could be a well constructed lie. She had no way to tell, no museum exhibit dedicated to the years between 1945 and now…

"I don't remember the mission."

Samara spared him a short, confused look over her shoulder; juggling the weight of two muesli boxes in her hands. "You don't remember what mission, exactly?" she questioned, going back to the nutritional information as though it was better entertainment.

Bucky let out an exasperated breath, gloved hand clenching at his side. "The train, where I – where it happened," he explained, brow furrowing to create deep ridges above his eyes. "I don't remember falling, or what happened to make me fall, but I remember… Being dragged through the snow, some soldier holding the back of my uniform and pulling my weight as he walked."

 _Muesli, muesli, muesli…_

Samara kept her eyes firmly on the blurring numbers and percentages on the packages, humming to show she was listening. She didn't want to look up, to stare at or watch him as he tried to speak. She didn't want to put him on the spot, to point out the fact that he was telling her this when he clearly didn't want to be. Making another sound, she lifted a brow in a silent command for him to continue.

"My arm was gone," Bucky choked out, his hand – the metal one – darting out to grab a box as well. It shook in his grip, the cardboard beginning to cave in around his fingers. "Just a bloody stump leaving a red trail in the snow."

The doctor closed her eyes. "How morbidly poetic," she grumbled, blinking rapidly and breathing out through her nose. The words spilling from his lips were creating an image behind the whiskey orbs, an image she really didn't want to be seeing but couldn't help but stare into. "So that's why your arm is – it's different?"

The box crumpled into a mess of paper and plastic. "Different?" Bucky chuckled darkly. "That's one way to put it."

"Different can be good," Samara argued pathetically, but not untruthfully, as she plucked the ruined cardboard from his hand. "I have to pay for this now," she muttered, throwing it into the cart with little more than another glance. "Who was the solider?"

They moved on, shifting down the aisle in silence as blue eyes clouded in concentration. "He was a soviet," Bucky shrugged like the information didn't matter, hand coming out to grab uselessly at something new.

"So, not a friendly?"

The smile was a little worn, but it still lit up his eyes somewhat. "No, Samara, he wasn't a friendly," Bucky chuckled quietly, dropping whatever had caught his attention so he could flex metal before his features. Despite the glove hiding the silver, he turned his palm over and studied the movements like a scientist looking through a microscope. "My shoulder was still there, intact and ending in a rather disgusting mess of flesh; but still there. I don't remember sleeping, but when I woke up, there was a blade…"

And there went the smile, disappearing into pain.

"The arm goes all the way up, as you no doubt saw," Bucky grunted shortly. "So, they got rid of the useless bits they couldn't use and replaced them with this," he thrust his arm up and out to the side, narrowly avoiding a student who glared their way.

The kid tugged out one of his earphones. "Dickhead…"

Samara's spine straightened, eyes flashing to the man beside her as his own body slowly turned to face the youth. There was something manic flashing in his eyes, had been since he first started recounting his story, but it used the insult as a building block; growing into a mix of anger and misery that would no doubt burn the store down around them. As the blue orbs sparked, his arm continued moving up and out with one target in mind. The stupid kid was going to have the bones in his face crushed any second if she didn't do _something_ to stop him –

– Grabbing his gloved hand, she quickly tucked it in her own, offering the kid an apologetic smile. "Sorry, he was telling me about his day," she excused, squeezing the fingers lodged between hers as a low growl echoed in her ear. "He gets a little excited."

The youth rolled his eyes, but the ear bud went back in and he continued walking, shrugging away the apology with a muttered; "Sure lady."

When the younger body was lost around the corner, she pulled back and frowned. "You were totally going to punch him weren't you?" she accused, lips pursing up into a perfect pout. "Bucky we don't go around punching people. It's not a thing now."

"He called me a dickhead."

"Only because you almost knocked out his teeth," Samara snorted, a smile playing at her lips. "Honestly, watch where you're swinging that thing," she taunted, flicking the metal before going back to the contents of the shelving before her. She couldn't press, not about his past, not anymore, and instead settled for pressing other matters. "Do we get plain chips or salt and vinegar?"

Bucky looked ready to reply before he started back like he'd been slapped. "Salt and _what?"_ he demanded, snatching the crinkling bag and holding it up for examination. "Why would you people even…"

Looking over with a cocked brow, she saw that he was glaring in her direction; eyes still dark with whatever emotion had made him almost strike the youth. He _knew_ was she was doing, had caught her aim to distract him before she even knew that was what she was trying to achieve, but he was playing along; equipped with banter and an argument of his own.

At least he wasn't trying to hit her.

She crossed her arms against her chest. "I'll have you know, it tastes delicious," the doctor defended.

Bucky snorted, blinking down at the packet, and whatever gratitude had been lighting up the lines of his face disappeared into bland amusement. "I'll have you know, it actually doesn't."

"How would you even – " Samara cut her words short, pursing her lips in his direction. "I'll convert you to our weird ways, my friend, believe me," she promised, picking the package from his fingers and dropping it into the half filled cart. "I can't believe you've never had salt and vinegar chips. You're such a freak."

Bucky lifted a curious brow. " _I'm_ the freak…" he murmured. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"I feel like that was an insult."

"It was."

"Explains why I thought it was then."

"That it does."

Samara grinned his way, searching for the panicked gleam in his eye but not managing to find it. He seemed content enough; shoulders rounded over in actual comfort rather than the feigned casualness from before, and the smile glancing over his lips was genuine enough to make her own widen. He was relaxing beside her again. And yeah her curiosity was somewhat unsated, but his chest wasn't heaving and his blue orbs weren't darkening in emotion.

Questions could wait.

Sighing out, more in relief than exasperation, she leaned on the trolley. "Wanna go get an early tea then?" she offered up, dangling the option between them. "This place smells like lemon pledge. And broken dreams."

"So that's what that is…" Bucky wrinkled his nose, but nodded towards the front of the store. "Let's go then. I'm hungry."

Samara started up with the pushing, curving around other carts and shoppers. "And how's the arm?" she inquired, smiling to an older frazzled woman hovering behind the counter. "It's not bothering you is it? Feels okay and all that?"

Bucky rolled the shoulder, face caught in indecision. "It's fine," he answered, each word clipped as the arm dropped back to his side, dangling like someone cut the strings. "Don't worry about it."

And that was him retreating back under the asshole façade. Brilliant.

Loading up the counter, she ignored the small trickle of irritation growing in her chest, and instead gave him a soft smile. "Okay, but remember to tell me if it bothers you again," she murmured, looking to the side in time to catch the check-out worker's confusion. "Oh, he did something to his shoulder while training, you know how boys can be," she chuckled, almost like it was an inside joke.

The woman calmed somewhat. "I have a few at home, and a husband of my own," she allowed with a teasing smile. "I understand how they can get. What were you training for hon?"

Bucky blinked, like a deer caught in the headlights.

"You won't believe me, even if I told you," Samara saved him with another smile, wrinkling her nose at the woman as she continued piling up the purchases. Every now and then her hand stuttered on something she didn't remember putting in the trolley. "Well actually no, you might. He's quite the boxer, as you can tell by the arms. Swung a punch, and his arm swung back."

The older woman tutted in sympathy. "Just rest it up," she instructed, nodding wisely. "Pay by cash or credit, love?"

Waving her card, Samara scanned it through the machine and punched out the quick four numbered pin. "That's what I've been telling him," she sighed, reaching out to rub the aforementioned man's shoulder. "But does he listen to me and my nagging? No."

Bucky looked between them both, confusion knitting his brow together before he snorted and moved to grab the plastic bags with slowed movements. "You nag too much," he murmured as he passed, leaning down so she'd catch the words.

Samara glared at the broad line of his shoulders as the woman cooed behind her; "Have a good day you two."

"Thanks, and you too," she muttered back distractedly, hurrying to catch up with the man as he stalked away. Her purse whacked against her side and she rolled her eyes when the hat peeked out at her. "Hey, mister caveman, wait for me. I have the car keys remember genius?"

Bucky waited, but there was an impatient air around him. "That woman thought I was your husband."

"As long as she didn't think you were my son," Samara snorted, tugging out the cap so she could shove it back over freshly washed hair. With her hands now free, she gently rubbed the tips of her fingers around her eyes and lips. "I don't have wrinkles right? And I can't look _that_ old. Anyway, technically you're ancient enough to be my grandfather, so if anyone is anyone's parent here – you're mine."

The soldier lifted a hand, plastic bags hanging from the wrist and all, to correct the brim of the hat. "I'm only…" Bucky frowned, mouth closing slowly before he breathed out loudly through his nose. "I'm not that old."

"Dude, you're like, ninety something?"

Bucky raised a single brow, leaning heavily against the car once they reached it. He watched her play about with the keys, struggling to get the boot open gracefully. "And you're what?" he challenged, chin lifting. "Thirty something?"

Her glare would've killed a lesser being, but he didn't even twitch. "I'm twenty nine, and a… a bit," the doctor grumbled.

"Is that _bit_ an odd few years?" Bucky asked lightly, shoving the bags into the boot before slamming it and moving back to the front of the car. His strut, paired with the shark like grin decorating his lips made him look every bit the predator. "Sorry gorgeous, but I say it like it is. And you don't exactly look like you stepped out of college yesterday."

Samara narrowed her eyes, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "When the hell did you become an asshole?" she muttered, breathing carefully through her mouth and opening the car door. "Stop trying to charm me, mate, it won't work."

Bucky was already sitting down by the time she was comfortable, and she started, not even noticing he'd moved. "An asshole?" he echoed, gloved hand drumming against his thigh. The playfulness that lined his body was fading, drifting back into the forced casualness like he was a coiling wire; ramrod straight and tensing with every passing second. "First time I can remember being called one of those."

"Key word being _remembered_ ," Samara snorted, starting up the car. "I really want pizza, what does the asshole want?"

"That's going to get old. Not as old as you, of course."

* * *

It was coming close to twenty four hours now, since he'd first shimmied open the back door to her house and wandered in as though he owned the place. Twenty four hours since she'd felt the cold steel of a blade against her belly, or the warm flesh under her hand as she stitched two stretches of skin together.

Twenty four hours since she'd forgone the phone in favour for helping the collapsed man to a soft bed.

At least luck was finally on her side, seeing as the soldier had done little more than throw her against something harder than her fragile body was meant to be thrown. But other than that incident, they'd seemed to reach an understanding. She'd pretended the men in blue weren't constantly thrumming in the back of her mind, and the soldier would apparently pretend his hand wasn't always itching to choke the life out of her.

Although, Samara wasn't sure if he was wanting to kill _her_ when long fingers twitched with the need. Sometimes the dark look she saw was more haunted than anything, like he was looking to hurt someone only he could see instead of the doctor hovering in his line of sight.

He looked ready to kill. But seemed as unsure as she did about whose blood he wanted.

Bucky Barnes wasn't the same man the museum had bragged about – now he was broken, haunted, hurt, furious. He still seemed as skilled with a weapon as the exhibit had claimed, but all the other quirks it had spoken highly of didn't seem to still be there. The doctor couldn't see this apparent _joker_ or _ladies' man_ that the people back in the second war could.

She just saw someone who needed help. Someone who was locked in the perfect cage of their own mind. Someone who, every time he thought he'd found a way out, realised that his own brain beat him to the punch and shut the door long before he could hope to reach out and grab it.

She could see the struggle sometimes, behind his eyes and in the thin line of his lips. If she asked a questions, sometimes the answer sounded like it wasn't from the man but from someone else. Like someone was using his mouth to speak.

But he looked relaxed enough when he slept.

Samara sighed, studying the sleeping body of the soldier reclining over the length of her couch. He'd barely managed to stay awake as the clock had ticked past eight, his eyes drooping dangerously even as they danced between the television screen, an empty stack of pizza boxes, and her own features. On a full stomach, with warmth coming in from every angle, it was like his body had wanted to shut down mend.

So, closing her own eyes and feigning sleep, she'd tried to let it. Of course, it took a few minutes of even breathing and patience, but eventually he'd succumbed and slumped over completely, silver hand reflecting the lights ghosting over the tv screen.

"And now you're watching him sleep," Samara whispered, rolling her eyes. "Maybe you _are_ the freak here Masons."

Pushing to her feet, she crept through to the spare room, snatching up the blanket from the rumpled bed before grabbing her own and trailing back into the lounge. He'd feel better if he woke up either first, or not alone in the room. If he thought she hadn't fidgeted through the night, he'd fall for the illusion that it was okay to sleep. That there were no threats.

Then again, if he woke up with a blanket he'd probably realise she'd woken up at _some_ point…

 _Oh well._

Who knew, maybe if he realised she'd done little more than make sure he was warm, he'd start investing some faith in her. Might realise she'd left all his limbs intact because _she_ had faith in _him._ Trust was important in a relationship.

Settling the cover over his body, she tucked it under his chin before stumbling back to her own couch, curling into a ball on the cushions. The television flickered more as she settled, leaving colours and shadows over his features and she watched the light show for a few more minutes, blanket wrapped around her and heart thudding in a slow even pace.

* * *

 **Finally. The boring crap is over, and next chapter is already becoming insanely fun to write. Who would've thought that if you paired a sarcastic ass doctor and a bored-as assassin, you'd get a good read.**

 **Taila xx**


	11. That's your backpack, and this is mine

It was the second time. The second time he was waking up draped in comfort rather than pain and the second time he questioned what he'd done to deserve such a luxury. He questioned why there was no agony dancing across the skin connecting him to metal, why there was warmth encompassing from all sides.

And he questioned why this was the second time in as many days that he would rather close his eyes and sleep, than shoot up in his usual panic and start swinging.

 _I think I've grown._

Bucky let out a low grunt, rolling his shoulders back into the softness under him. There was something on the column of his throat, and he flinched at the slide of material against his skin, silver fingers blindly reaching out and grabbing at whatever was tangling around him. His fingers stumbled through the panic but once the pressure was gone, he let out a small sigh, hand coming away wrapped in a familiar sky blue duvet.

It took him a few seconds, but he recognized it as the one he'd woken up beneath yesterday; the muted scent of his skin clinging to the material even after a single night. Pushing up with his other hand, he kept a firm hold on the blanket and frowned, _knowing_ he hadn't fetched it the night before.

"Hmmm…."

The quiet murmur snatched his attention, spine locking into a rigid line as his mind acknowledged someone else breathing in the room with him. Whoever the intruder was, they were tightly wrapped up in a pale blanket of their own; leg sticking out at an awkward angle, and a shock of dark hair spilling over the cushions to brush against the floor.

Bucky couldn't see much beside the stockinged foot and messy locks, but it was all he needed, shoulders slumping back against the pillow. They sunk under his weight and he slowly deflated backwards. "Samara…" he mumbled, almost scolding the woman for scaring him.

A small, quiet cooing sound was his response, but she didn't wake; instead only rolling over and burrowing even further into the covers.

Snorting, Bucky mirrored her actions, settling further into the blanket still covering his body. "How cute," he noted absently, tugging up the cover with silver fingers. Running his free hand through his hair, he sent up a prayer that his own locks didn't look as ruffled as hers. He could almost imagine her mocking lilt now, hand hovering like she wanted to touch as she huffed out; _'bed hair!'_ before the smile disappeared as she turned her back.

With the thought in mind, he looked back her way, cocking his head as he studied her features, as lax in sleep as they were. The doctor looked better than the previous day, her eyes no longer shadowed by purpling circles, and her forehead smooth and free from worried lines. He'd been, as much as it loathed him to admit it, _playing_ with her when he'd poked holes about her age in the parking lot. He'd wanted her defensive; annoyed enough that she'd correct his assumption without questioning it.

It had worked like a charm, manipulation coming easy to his mind, and he'd learnt her true age before he'd even had the time to close his mouth. "Twenty nine," Bucky frowned again, pushing up and away from the couch with a quietly pained groan. The muscles decorating the length of his legs were moaning a little in protest, unamused he'd forced them into the tight confines of the cushions all night.

Rubbing them placatingly, he looked across the room, eyes sparking in displeasure. For some reason he couldn't help but think she was still little more than a child – how old was _he_? – but the knowledge didn't even make the soldier in his head falter. Youthful or not, she was good at what she did, and that meant she would succeed more often than she would fail – and while the soldier didn't care for age, it cared for failure.

Of course, then the _humane_ part of his mind kicked into gear and more or less raised hell on the doctor's behalf.

He was having his bad moments with the more human side to him, but even with his irritation, he was worried how he'd think without it. If whiskey eyes flashed his way, he felt nothing more than exasperation for the constant string of comments, but also interest in what could be said next. But if the solider was in charge, would he feel the fond exasperation, or would he only feel morbid fascination? Would he hurt her again?

He grimaced. Ever since the heavy taint to the air yesterday, when he'd thrown the woman against the wall, he hadn't felt the desire to pain her or wave a gun in her direction. Threats, pain – it didn't work. Not with her. And he was happy he would never have to raise a hand in her direction.

 _He_ was happy. Not the soldier. Not the training.

But he wasn't the training, and he wasn't the soldier. He was Bucky Barnes.

And _Bucky,_ he had put some faith into the woman, had given her the benefit of the doubt because he believed she deserved it. With the way she looked to him, looked _after_ him with careful hands and doting smiles showed she deserved nothing less. It showed that she cared and it was strange to know something like that. To know that the smile was fond because that's how she felt towards him, instead of how she wanted him to _think_ she felt.

Bucky moved towards her on light feet, crouching beside the couch as the frown continued to deepen around his lips. She was breathing softly, lips parted slightly as small bursts of air snapped through white teeth. Watching her chest lift and fall, he copied the pattern, breathing in time with her as he calmed the mess of his mind.

"Ngh…" Samara's nose wrinkled up, and one hand batted at the assassin's features, almost like she knew someone was hovering close by. The man backed away obediently, watching as next the hand moved to smooth down her face, brushing away the wayward strands of hair tickling her cheeks. "Hm."

Bucky lifted a brow. "You can't even stay quiet in your sleep," he snorted, rolling his eyes as he leaned back, putting his weight on his heels. "At least it'll never be boring with you around."

Pushing up, he glanced over the room before checking in on the female once again. In the time it had taken her to deal with the woman yesterday, the one he'd seen wearing white, he had peeked around in the 'private' section of her house. Only to make sure he wasn't walking into anything dangerous, of course. And other than the small journal under her mattress – which he'd first thought was a really sad book, but turned out to actually be her diary – her room had been rather dull.

Hopefully her study would prove to be mildly entertaining. He needed a distraction to keep him busy until the woman was awake.

Heading out of the dark living area, he wandered into the hallway, eyes searching for the heavy wooden door as his ears listened to the still flickering television. He'd been in the room alone before, when he'd been searching high and low for a needle, but he hadn't had the time to really _snoop_ – which was a damn shame in his opinion. He'd seen multiple filing cabinets waiting to be rifled through.

The familiar weight of the door handle sat in his palm, and with another check over his shoulder for whiskey eyes, he pushed it open. The warm smell of aged books and rich perfume hit him as he wandered in, tickling his nose with familiarity. But even despite the welcoming scent, he almost felt like he wasn't welcome; like he was trespassing on forbidden territory. He hadn't felt that when reading the diary, but he felt it now, and it struck him that the doctor probably cared more for her work than she did for her own life.

Bucky peeked up at the slightly open door, fingers trailing over the top of the oaken desk. It would be fine. She was sleeping and would remain asleep for a while yet – and even if she did wake, she'd be too tired to scold him properly.

There were a few folders littering the surface and he thumbed through them, reading about one – "Jennifer Atherton?" he murmured, skimming over it quickly before dismissing the words. The papers hit the floor, and he moved onto the one hiding beneath it. "Nina Adams?"

 _The woman in white?_

Opening the file, he pressed a silver finger against the page, dragging it downwards as he looked over it. The words were uninteresting; dull and altogether not worth his time. Snorting, he went to push it from the desk as well, bored, until he noticed the photo's dangling provocatively from the corners. They were meant to document the work the good doctor had completed, that much was clear by the photo of the woman's lower body and – Bucky blanched and looked to the next photo, catching the head shots innocently thrown in.

The added photo was almost childish, both females grinning at whoever was hiding behind the camera, but at the same time it was so _Samara_ that he couldn't –

Wait.

Bucky frowned, thrusting the photo closer to his features. He knew that woman. He'd seen her with the blonde – with Steve – during the fights. He'd shot her on the highway, a clean hit through the shoulder after she'd done _something_ to his arm.

He clenched the silver fingers together in memory, the echo of the shock shooting through the wiring. It hadn't been a pleasant feeling, almost painful, but he liked to think he'd got her back with the well aimed bullet.

"So what are you doing _here?"_ he grumbled, narrowing his eyes at the ajar door hovering a few feet from him.

Samara wasn't…

No, she can't have…

The doctor had been confused yesterday, muttering about how idiotic it was to come to a cosmetic surgeon for something so tiny. The annoyed gleam to her eyes had been genuine. She wasn't aware of just who the red head was, not like he was, but the female apparently knew the doctor enough to decide she was worth investigating.

Bucky felt his teeth grind together as he threw the papers to the ground, leaning heavily against the table. _Where did I go wrong?_ Gripping one hand in his hair, he tried to sort through how the female assassin had known where to find him. He'd been careful, had spotted the camera on every street corner and avoided the ones that would lead them straight to this house.

 _Damn it._ The Russian had found him in under a day. What could she do in two?

With the thought caught behind his eyes, he lost interest in the warm room, now stalking towards the closet he'd peered in before. There was clothing in there, maybe a little loose fitting sure, but it was spare clothing. He cycled through it, remembering the sizes the doctor had murmured yesterday before grabbing a few of each article. Fists full of material, he headed out of the room, glaring at the ground all the while.

He didn't get away from his handlers, from the soviets, all so another group could attempt to pin him down. He had gotten away once before, and would be damned if he couldn't do it again.

And again, if he had too.

The guest room's door was open, the bed in disarray and missing some blankets, but he wasn't interested. Like all the other rooms, it had another few other doors – one leading to the bathroom he'd used before, and another he had yet to open. Yanking on it, he was pleased to find a few older, musty jackets hanging delicately, and…

Bucky grinned.

* * *

What the holy hell was touching her face? And _why_ was it touching her face?

Samara brushed at her cheeks impatiently, wrinkling her nose at the small tickle. "The hell is…" she grunted, flinging her body up and rubbing furiously at her face. It took a few seconds for the sensation of bugs crawling over her face to fade, but once it had she let out a thankful sigh; slumping over as she looked over the room.

Everything was in one piece, thank goodness. No fires. No dead people. No assassin on the other couch.

Shit.

The doctor shot to her feet, almost tumbling to the floor when the blankets tangled about her feet. "Gah!" she cried, hitting the ground and knocking her teeth together. "Damn it all, that hurt…"

Footsteps hurried to where she was lying in a pathetic mess on the ground. "Are you oka – Samara? Why the hell are you on the floor?"

"Taking a short vacation." Flopping onto her back and glaring up, she snorted in annoyance. "What the hell are _you_ doing out of bed?" she demanded right back, wiggling wildly in an attempt to get away from the bed covers. "What? Wandering around my house and perving in all my drawers? By the way, uh, all that porn you might've found? It's not mine, promise, I'm actually holding it for a friend."

Bucky quirked up a curious brow. "I didn't find porn, and I wasn't _perving_ in your drawers," he defended, watching her legs kick out before bending at the knee. His silver fingers were gentle as they gripped the blanket and tugged, rolling her out like a burrito. "I was busy with something."

"What something is that exactly? My friend's impressive porn collection?"

"No," the assassin – she was sticking to the title, screw you – muttered, reaching out to now pull her to her feet. He seemed to take her hand with far too much care, like he was expecting a pound of pressure to split her skin and as focused on it as she was; she stumbled and almost lost her dignity to the cushioned ground. She caught herself just as the man smiled blandly, "With our back-up plan, actually."

Samara perked up, absently brushing away imaginary dirt. "What? We have a back-up plan? Okay, that's awesome," she decided, grinning and bouncing on her feet. "What is it? If something bad happens please say I get to dramatically jump from a high window? Ride a motorcycle? Shoot a gun? No wait, scratch that last one. Guns are bad and I do not condone them."

Bucky just listened, strangely subdued as he shook his head. "No to all of that. You're fragile; if you fell from a window, you'd hit the ground in a truly spectacular fashion. But I suppose I could always find you a motorcycle, if you really wanted one," he allowed indulgently. "Whether I let you _drive_ it on the other hand…"

"I'm not that fragile," the doctor pouted, taking advantage of the strange mood. "I survived being flung against a wall in a truly spectacular fashion – I think I could survive driving a two wheeled vehicle. I do well enough with four."

"I see. Ever survived being shot at?"

Samara winced. "Well, uh, no, see Buck, normal people don't get shot at."

"Ever survived a fist fight with a super solider?"

Again, the dark haired woman grimaced and shook her head, understanding that she was, more or less, being scolded by the man. "Uh again no, mostly because I have no freakin' clue what you mean when you say super soldier?" Samara cocked her head, frowning as she took in the words. "What even is that? I mean, _super?_ You talking about your best bud Rogers?"

Bucky grunted at the mention, nostrils flaring. "Steven Rogers was injected with the _super soldier_ _serum,_ " he muttered. "Now do you have a freaking clue?"

Realising she may have crossed the line into the no-no territory, she moved on. "Kay, well, good for him. I'll bake him a cake or something – but what were you saying about this back-up plan? Don't think I didn't notice your slick little subject change," she snorted, folding her arms against her chest. "If there's not at least _one_ dramatic get away, I'm not doing it. I refuse."

The man sighed and waved at her to follow him, walking from the room and back towards her study, where his footsteps had originated from. The door was propped open, and something in her gut tightened nervously. She would rather he had looked through her drawers, then through her work. And how had he even gotten in there? Hadn't she locked it?

Samara tangled her fingers together, nervously wringing them out as she trailed close behind him. "What's going on in here?" she asked quietly, studying the twin backpacks littering the once bare floor space. They were from her hiking days, expensive and sturdy, but covered in dust from a lack of use. It wasn't that she didn't like the great outdoors, it was just that her job didn't.

Bucky crouched and started idly rummaging through one. "I need you to grab some clothing. Practical, so none of your skirt and heels, understood?" he commanded, looking up with a stern expression. "And I want them in here. Also, any form of ID you might have."

Ah. Now she could see it - a back-up plan at its finest.

"Your back-up plan is to get the hell out of dodge?" she questioned slowly, moving towards her desk where a plastic sheet identified her as a doctor. The medical license went straight into the bag. "Not that it's not a good plan, but uh, you see I'm this thing called a surgeon, and I can't exactly up and leave my work without an – an explanation!"

Bucky straightened, features not even displeased by her announcement. "I know. And that's why you're calling your assistant and telling her a family emergency just came up. You're taking an extended leave, because you don't know how long you'll be away, but expect a while," he ordered, picking up the sleek phone from the desk. "Now Samara, I don't care what you say, but I want you to get rid of this thing you call a _surgeon."_

Samara took the phone, blinking when cool fingers brushed against her own. "Extended leave. Family emergency," she parroted, biting her lower lip until it swelled red. "Is this a back-up plan? Or the main plan?"

"Phone."

Whiskey eyes dropped quickly, roaming over the dial pad as her fingers tapped in different digits. Right, she could easily do this. She was going on an extended leave, because her… oh uh, her mother was… um

" _Hello, this is Doctor Samara Masons office, how can I help you today?"_

Samara continued to nibble on her lower lip. "Hey Rachel, it's me again, aren't you in a little early today?" she squeaked, backing away from the man as he went through each bag, and his own mental checklist. She could see his mouth moving, but couldn't read what he was saying from the full lips alone.

Rachel sounded about as nervous as she did. _"Oh, doc, it's uh, it's you?"_ she breathed, rapid typing sounding suddenly. _"I was just, well catching up on some work you know? Thought I might get ahead. For the person who replaces me."_

Person who what?

"Replaces you?" Samara echoed, confused. "Why would someone be replacing you?"

" _Because you're going to fire me!"_ Rachel almost screamed down the line, voice turning somewhat hysterical. _"Because I can't keep my mouth shut and I feel terrible and oh my god, I'm a terrible human being. But my student debt was so much, and I just really – it was weighing on me, you know? And I thought I'd feel better without it, but I feel worse!"_

Samara blinked once. "I'm confused. Still."

" _She bribed me. She bribed me and I let it happen."_

That wasn't helping, not in the least. "Okay, we're going to start this again. You were bribed? And I heard something about your student loan in there, I think?" she frowned, running a hand through her hair. Nearby, the assassin was gesturing to his shirt, one eyebrow waved and she swatted a hand back at him in response.

" _The red head. Nina – uh Nina Adams? She's not actually Nina Adams. She's that female super spy I was trying to tell you about yesterday and she basically just paid for my education."_

Samara blinked again, making it twice that long lashes had brushed against her cheeks. "Nina Adams…" she repeated, watching the man now stiffen before stalking from the room. "Wasn't actually…"

" _She said it was a matter of national security!"_

"All I did was get rid of some skin tags?" Samara murmured, rubbing a hand over her eyes. "Alright, you know what, no. I'm not dealing with this. You can. You're not fired, but you're going to call all my appointments for the next few weeks – the next few months and tell them I've cancelled. I got a call this morning; my step mother had a heart attack. I'm taking an… an extended leave."

Rachel was silent, breath hissing through the phone. " _Wait, so I'm not fired?"_

"Next few months. Clear the schedule. Heart attack. Extended leave."

" _Yeah I got that, but I'm_ _ **not**_ _fired? You sure?"_

Samara closed her eyes and dropped the phone back into its handle, teeth grinding together as the past few minutes wreaked havoc in her mind. Okay so that _friend_ she'd mentioned to the assassin the day before, was quickly falling back in her ranks. She was leaning a little closer to the whole acquaintance thing right now, maybe the mutual family friend you know well enough to smile at.

Rachel wasn't meant to betray her, damn it. She was a student? A book wormy girl who got along with her boss even with the odd ten year difference between them.

A student now free of all her debt.

Her mind now flashing to the amount of money she forked out for her own, she sighed. No, she understood it. Now all she had to understand was who this red head really was…

"What are these meant to be and why do you own them?"

Samara looked up, catching the plaid pyjama pants clenched in silver fingers. "It's cold in the winter," she argued weakly, pointing to the phone. "I got rid of the surgeon thing. But I can't seem to shake government assassins from the list. That red head yesterday? I think she was one of your buddies down at _SHIELD_ , was it?"

Bucky flinched, before his features fell into complete disinterest. "The red head?" he echoed, moving closer and revealing the pile of clothing wrapped around his flesh hand. She could tell from where she was that the clothing was her _lazy day_ style – all sweatpants, jeans and plain crew neck tees.

"Your sudden interest in a back-up plan wouldn't have anything to do with that would it?"

He dropped her gaze, shoving the clothing into one of the bags. "It might, yes," he admitted, letting out a sigh. "But it also might not. Is this enough clothing? Do you have anything you can't bear to part with?"

Samara opened her mouth, ready to argue before she slumped in defeat. "No, I don't really get sentimental," she murmured, wiping a hand down her face. "They paid off my assistant yesterday so I'd have the appointment with her instead of whoever was my original. But I don't understand, all she did was talk and ask me to do my _job?"_

The assassin frowned, mimicking her action and scrubbing his features. "It would've been me," he breathed out, straightening and looking up towards her. "She would've wanted to see if you were hiding me, or trying to hide _from_ me."

"I didn't…" Samara couldn't help but look towards the door. "She didn't…"

Bucky tried to smile. "Hence the back-up plan. I don't know if she did. But if she comes for us, I want to be prepared," he decided, clapping his hands together. It was a strange sound, and she winced thinking it must've hurt but the man showed no sign of discomfort. "So this is your backpack, and this is mine. They have food, water, clothing and your identification. I've also put some of your running shoes in there, and found some hygiene products. Is there anything else you think we might need if we need to leave?"

Samara frowned, and her lower lip ached when her teeth went back to it. "My wallet?" she offered, patting down her pockets uselessly, before hurrying from the room. "It's right… uh…"

"I don't have to tell you how important this is, do I?" Bucky drawled, leaning against the wall as she rustled through the bowl of keys by the door. "I don't have to say some spiel about how, because you've helped me, you're a wanted criminal as well?"

 _Wanted… Wanted what?_

"I thought you worked for the good guys?" she murmured, holding out her wallet.

Bucky gently pried it from her fingers, his smile terrifying but still attractive because he was a little shit. "I don't remember saying that," he purred, but the heated words fell flat as he wandered away.

* * *

 **Here we go – so apparently I lied when I said there was action in this chapter because nothing happened. Nothing. Apart from whatever that *waves wildly at writing hovering above* is!**

 **Next chapter. Hold me to it.**

 **Taila xx**


	12. Shitty day doesn't even cover it

Steve sighed.

Then just for good measure, he sighed again.

And okay, so his mother always told him that the _third time was the charm…_

"Oh my god, would you stop?" Tony exploded into sound across the room, his brow pinched and tablet resting on his lap. "I swear, that if I hear another sad, breathy exhale leave your mouth Rogers, I'm going to slap you," he threatened, both hands coming down to hit the sides of his legs. "And it'll be in the face too, suit not optional."

At the reprimand, Steve shrunk back as far as the couch would allow, hiding from the irritated but also slightly adorable look the billionaire was giving him. He wasn't sure if the man had realised it yet, but he had a smudge of chocolate on the corner of his lips – no doubt from his morning cocoa, which was apparently a thing here in the tower – and it ruined the dangerous image he was trying to create.

Honestly, a puppy would look more threatening right about now.

Wisely keeping the _adorable_ comment safe within his own mind, the soldier perked up, trying to find brown eyes over the cushions. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were trying to work…" he murmured defensively, pouting down at his own finished mug of hot chocolate. "I'll try shut up now. Sorry, if I bothered you."

Speaking of puppies, he may or may not have put his infamous _puppy dog eyes_ into play as he spoke, hoping to earn a quick forgiveness. But judging by the quick drain of anger from broad shoulders, he did, he definitely did, and there was no _may_ about it.

Tony let out a practised sigh of his own, only giving a small flinch when he realised what he'd done. "Okay, listen here then," he started, throwing his tablet to the side and pushing to his feet. Picking up his unfinished hot drink, he lumbered over to the couch the blonde was hiding in, pressing the warm cup into fidgeting hands. "I can get you to Washington in maybe forty minutes, forty five tops, then to the suburb in another five – so we can be there in under an hour, provided you don't mind clinging to the suit like a dick."

The offer, despite the last word being an insult, was said in a warm tone and blue eyes glanced over hopefully.

But, seeing as it was Tony, the companionable moment lasted all of three seconds. "You happy now? Good, so stop with the sighs, and change out of your bloody pyjamas," he drawled, picking at one material clad leg. "I don't even want to know where you found these."

Steve made an annoyed sound back, sipping from his borrowed cup. "They have _you_ plastered all over them, so stop fussing," he instructed weakly, swatting at the hand that continued poking at his leg and his newly acquired ironman pyjamas. "I thought you said I looked good in red and gold, anyway?"

The comment was made back distractedly, and when the billionaire answered in kind; the banter continued for a while, managing to not only lift his spirits but also dampen them as well. It may have seemed like another lifetime when he'd accused the man beside him of being selfish, of being unable to make a sacrifice for somebody else, but he knew it had been less than a few years. Words as harsh as the ones he'd said couldn't be forgotten so soon, or forgiven with a half-hearted apology…

But honestly, back on the carrier he'd thought he been saying what everyone else was thinking. And when the genius mind had figured a way out of the riddle, he'd laughed spitefully and thrown it back at with even more venom, almost feeling victorious when hurt had flashed in brown eyes.

 _I think I'd just cut the wire._

He'd only been saying what _he'd_ been thinking, and he couldn't have realised how wrong his thoughts really were, because now he'd met the man. Not the one that hid behind a practised smile, or a cocky strut but the one who threw himself through a wormhole to save thousands with little more than a thought to his own wellbeing. The one who was currently giving so much to help him find his best friend, who was offering resources, money, his time, his home…

Steve ran a hand over his features, catching the strange look he was being sent from the genius. "About before," he began, licking his lips. "Your offer – Tony, I appreciate it, but I'm not letting you go out of your way even more for me."

The sudden conversation change must have confused the man, because the strange look soured all the more.

"You've already done so much, and helped enough, so stop making that face or it'll get stuck like that," Steve pointed out, tipping his borrowed cup in the man's direction. It earned him an amused snort, which was better than nothing. "Besides, Natasha's got a handle on it. And if she was right, and she _has_ found him then she'll tell us."

Letting out a final sigh, and expecting that promised slap from before, the blonde only frowned when nothing but silence commenced. The billionaire beside him had slumped back, hand raking first through his hair, and then across his stubbled chin as he seemed to gain twenty years in the space of a second. Watching it all pan out, the exhaustion and frustration making lines in smooth skin, Steve felt his chest tighten in concern. Without a second thought, he opened his mouth, ready to sprout out random rubbish and -

Before he could even think of something to offer up as comfort, the brunette gave him a wan smile. "I'm sure she will," Tony allowed, lifting a hand in a mock salute. "And if it's not your precious Barnes, then we just keep looking, yeah?"

Steve blinked, slowly passing back the half full mug of, what was essentially, liquid chocolate. "Yeah," he echoed.

The billionaire's smile still seemed worn, tired, but the contents of the cup seemed to perk him up a little the longer he sipped. If it wasn't Bucky, then they'd kept looking. They'd had all of two leads on his best friend, but every time the genius said the same thing.

 _We'll just keep looking Rogers, buck up. Heh, get it? Buck up 'cause Bucky?_

It should've been him that was always so damn hopeful, and at every dead end – okay two in two days wasn't that bad, and they weren't even sure if the second was dead or not – he should've been the one to keep going. If they didn't find the man today, oh well, Steve was nothing if not optimistic and they had years to continue looking. The world wasn't big enough for one man to hide for eternity, now was it? No, so smile, shut it, and keep looking.

But the thing was, instead of keeping a smile, he was slumping in defeat before they'd even gotten the news about the latest hope. The first lead, with the female doctor, may have led to nothing but a brick wall – but they had another, didn't they? And once again, Natasha was all over it and already gathering a small squad to investigate.

They were on their way, and she'd call him with either good news or bad. Either way, she'd _promised_.

Steve swallowed, brow coming together to form a knot above his eyes. "I don't think it's him," he murmured after a few seconds, listening to the comical sound of the genius slurping hot cocoa. "This – it all seems too easy you know?"

Beside him, the slurping stopped and brown eyes bored into the side of his head. Finally, Tony let out a quiet sigh, "Yeah I know what you mean," he revealed shortly, and then he was handing over the hot cocoa like they were trading a flask of alcohol. "It's only been what, two days? Finding him and catching him now would be too simple. And, well, life doesn't do simple…"

Thankfully, Steve sipped the warmed chocolate. "What are we going to do if this doesn't work? We've checked out the other home owners, they're all clean expect for this one. And if he doesn't have Bucky, then…"

"Then where the hell is the bastard?" Tony finished softly, sighing yet again. "I don't think it's him either, to be honest with you. I get that the guy was arrested twice for illegal arms dealing, but how does that connect to HYDRA? And how would Barnes even know the guys address? It just doesn't make sense to me, none of it. HYDRA wouldn't stick with someone dumb enough to get their asses caught, anyway."

Steve nodded in understanding, realising the man beside him was putting his confused thoughts into words. "Exactly. But I like what Nat said this morning – about how Buck might have a safe house? That would make sense wouldn't it?"

"It would make more sense than him going to an ex-senator's yeah," Tony chuckled. "We should start going through his folder then, see if we can find anything," he muttered, shooting the blonde careful looks from the corner of his eye. "I can help you, if you want?"

Wanting to wince at the thought of the file – still sitting under his pillow beside one of those pocket sized packets of tissues – Steve swallowed down the initial response of rejection and instead nodded. "That, uh, that would be appreciated, yeah," he murmured, shaking out the slight horror from the few sentences he'd so far read. At the rate he was going, it would take him years to get through the first page. "I'm having some trouble stomaching it all."

Tony reached out to pet his shoulder, nothing more than a quick pat and rub to the tense muscle. "Sure, we'll look later – but for now, I want more damn hot chocolate. You in, soldier?"

Steve downed the rest of the mug in his hands, taking it like a shot of strong vodka. "Hell yeah, sir."

"That's what I like to hear," Tony grinned and trotted back into the kitchen, already fetching what he'd need to make up another batch. The blonde watched him move like a hawk, hoping to gauge the recipe from what he saw the man do. "And there is my military slang knowledge. I don't know what to say anymore. Shame that, it was almost fun having you call me _sir."_

"Kink we don't know about Stark?"

Tony's eyes rolled skywards. "Oh great, you're here," he drawled, turning to give the newcomer a bored look. "Birds are such good conversation, what with their vocabulary and ability to speak and all that. This is sure to be riveting."

Sam snorted. "Don't sound so pleased to see me," he muttered back. "I might start popping up more."

"Please don't."

Looking between the two men, the blonde captain let out a sigh and refused to get involved in whatever they called the conversation. He wasn't sure if it was a _love-hate_ relationship the pair had going on, or if it was more _hate-hate_ – just polite if, and when, he was around. Then again, knowing them both as well as he did, Steve was sure that when he _wasn't_ around, their language was a lot more colourful.

A gentle nudge to his side caught his attention, Sam settling against the counter next to him. "What smells so good?" he asked, making a show of scenting the air. "What? Do billionaires' farts smell like chocolate and sunshine now?"

Tony let out a comical sound. "You can see the chocolate in my hand, come on, you can _see_ _it_ ," he complained, shaking the small container of expensive cocoa powder in emphasis. "And for your information I fart rainbows and bloody butterflies. Learn the difference and educate yourself, swine."

Sam turned to give the soldier a judgemental look. "This is the man you said we should go too for help, and the man I apparently _just had_ to meet?"

Steve wilted when two pairs of eyes turned to watch him expectantly. "I didn't say _had_ too," he grumbled, hoping to keep his pride but also get hot chocolate after this. Then again, if the genius felt tickled, he'd probably get more than one cup. "I said – okay, so I said had too, what are you gonna do about it?"

Sam just threw his hands in the air.

Tony, on the other hand, gave him a shark like grin and leant across the counter. "Naw, did you want me to meet your friends, Stevie? My goodness, I feel all flustered now," he mocked, holding the back of his hand against his cheek and sighing gustily. "I hope I made a good impression. I'd just hate for your friends not to like me."

Sam blinked once before announcing in perfect deadpan; "I don't like you."

"Correction – I'd just hate for your _important_ friends not to like me."

Steve watched the argument like one would a tennis match, his head shooting between the contesting players. He could feel the familiar burn of a blush on his cheeks, but pretended the sharp planes were their usual tanned shade as he spoke up again, purposefully ignoring the whole _meeting the friends_ spiel. "I didn't see you complaining, Wilson," he shrugged, butting in before he could reply to the billionaires snark. "And you didn't exactly dig in your heels when I said we should come here."

"That's because you said, and I quote; 'I might just become HYDRA myself if I don't get out of this hospital,'" Sam recited, splaying out his hands to add a dramatic, but unneeded, flair to the words. "Also, something like; 'come on, he's bound to have a private plane in the airport because he doesn't know what a savings account is. He won't mind if we borrow it.'"

Brown eyes flickered in amusement, and instantly Steve held up his hands in surrender. "I said none of that," he announced. "And me? HYDRA? Come on, pull your head out of your ass. That'll _never_ happen."

"Steve said a bad language word. Hell is now officially frozen over," Tony floundered. "I think I can hear angels crying."

"You should stop being so concerned with my friends liking you, and start worrying over whether _I_ like you," Steve commented dryly, leaning back to fold his arms against his chest. "And you've heard me curse before Stark, so don't act so scandalized."

Tony shot him a wounded look. "You don't like me? Rude. Right well, I'm thirsty so I'm going to leave you losers here and drink this hot chocolate all by myself. Goodbye, and goodnight," he declared with a flourish, pulling a new cup down from the cupboard.

"It's literally ten o'clock in the morning," Sam spared the clock on the wall a glance.

"And you're literally annoying."

Steve looked between them both again, and sighed, slumping over to rest his cheek against the marble counter top. He'd barely dropped his head when a firm swat hit the back of it, sending out a short lived wave of pain. "Hey!" he cried, rising back up and cradling the injured area. "What was that for?"

"I told you I'd slap you, Rogers, don't test me."

* * *

Everybody has bad days.

Samara, personally, thought she'd had more than her fair share of such days – in fact, she thought that maybe life could throw her something she could consider good every once in a while. You know, a change of pace so to speak. And surprisingly, moments like that did come, and she got things like highly paying patients or a dress she'd been wanting for months that had finally dropped in price. Life apparently believed in the whole _ups and downs_ thing people kept saying about it, and liked to employ the factor in anyway it could.

So, for example, when the doctor was having, let's say a _good day_ – life liked to be an asshole and throw a curve ball. A curve ball with killer biceps, killer blue eyes and a general _killer_ personality.

Life wasn't giving her lemons, no, because it was giving her… whatever vegetable _he_ classed as.

"So, uh…" Samara toyed with the leftover oats in her bowl, trying her damnest to pretend that it held all of her interest. She could feel said killer blue eyes from before boring into the top of her unbrushed hair, maybe judging the messy locks, maybe judging the breakfast she'd made them or maybe judging how to murder her without getting blood on the rug.

Who knew?

Across from her, she heard the man breathe in slowly. "So…" Bucky echoed, the word carried on a sharp exhale.

The doctor groaned and closed her eyes, slumping back. "You're killing me here," she complained, sneaking one golden orb open and peeking across the table. "No, seriously, I actually think you're mentally murdering me."

The man cocked his head, studying whatever emotions she had decorating her features. "Why would I do it mentally?" he questioned gently, apparently not realising how bad the words sounded as he played with his own breakfast. "I believe that if you dream about doing something, you should do it."

"How poetical. So what, you dream about murdering me?" Samara snorted, falling into the banter thankfully and somewhat gracefully. "Well, that's better than imagining me naked, I suppose."

Bucky lifted a brow in reply.

"I said _suppose_ , which you would've noticed if you bothered to listen, _"_ the woman snapped in defence, crossing her arms. The _nerve_ of that man. "Is that all you're capable of doing? You have more muscles in your face than the one's controlling your eyebrows. And I would know this because I'm a doctor," she mocked, lifting her hands to point to her mouth. "You have this thing called a tongue, and it makes these useful things called _words_. You should try it every once in a while."

Blue eyes followed the wild movement of her hand for all of three seconds, before floating back up her face. "I'm well aware of what my tongue can do," he drawled, lifting his own arms to fold them against his chest. "And for the record, I didn't say that I dream about _murdering_ you."

Samara narrowed her eyes, not exactly liking _or_ disliking the sudden turn of the conversation. "Yeah? And what do murderous hunks dream about then if it's not murdering other hunks?"

"Torture isn't murder."

The doctor held up both hands in defeat, pushing to her feet without managing anything louder than an abandoned growl. "I just – you are…" Snatching up their empty plates, she stormed towards the sink and threw them in, blowing her bangs away from her features with an irritated breath. "You could've made a spectacular innuendo there, and I'm so mad at you for not taking the opportunity," she decided to say, running the hot water.

Behind her, the chair creak as the man shifted to watch her – probably ensuring she didn't take a kitchen knife to him, which okay yes, she was tempted to do. "Innuendo? I must've missed it, sorry, I was thinking about the _useful things_ my tongue can do."

And there went what little grace she managed to hold during mealtime conversation.

Stumbling despite the fact that she was standing still, she gave him a furious look. "You're not funny and now I'm even _madder_ at you," she warned, turning to rinse the dishes before he caught the blush. "Honestly. I like you more when you're plotting world domination or – or my murder."

"I'll get right back to that then," Bucky shrugged, moving to his feet. "You hoping for open casket at the funeral?"

Samara blinked over her shoulder, brow coming together when the man once again changed the direction of the conversation. "Uh, I'm kinda freaked by the sight of dead people, so closed please…" she muttered, running a wet hand over the nape of her neck. "I may be a doctor, but if I see a dead man on a slab, then it usually means I've done something wrong, you know…"

Bucky nodded, shoving both hands into the oversized sweat pants clinging to his hips.

And she nodded back.

Then _silence._

Samara blew out another breath, wiping her hands dry on the nearest tea towel. "So that just happened. You're not still hungry?" she asked brightly, hoping to confuse him as much as he'd confused her in the past five minutes. "And how's the arm feeling? We should probably take some more of the antibiotic I've been using with us in the little _backpack backup_ you've got going on."

The man shrugged again, managing to follow the ramble with ease – the _bastard_. "You made enough to feed a family," he pointed out, patting his stomach consolingly. "I'll be alright for a couple of hours. And the arms fine," he answered sharply, faltering once the words hit the air between them. Almost sheepishly, he added a; "thank you," before the silence dawned again.

Ignoring the words she was almost positive she'd imagined, she balked. "Uh, the arm is what now?" Samara tried for a chuckle, but it fell flat and died somewhere on her tongue. "You, uh, it doesn't just _heal_ , Buck. It should still be bothering you, at least, and a lack of pain probably isn't a good thing here…"

Bucky levelled her with a small look of warning. "My arm is fine," he repeated. "And I do, in fact, _just heal_. I'll recognize the medicine if I see it again, so I can get some and store it in the packs. Do you have reusable syringes?"

The doctor tried to follow the conversation, wondering why she was hearing everything through what seemed like a sheen of mud. "You don't wanna use one more than once, or else it'll basically become a hive for any bacteria and – and I haven't had my coffee this morning," she realised, slapping one hand against her forehead in a comical fashion. "That's why this is confusing as heck."

"What's confusing as heck?"

"You, you are confusing as heck," Samara accused, shifting towards the coffee maker across the room. "Hey can we fit this in the backpack you think? Just get rid of the things we don't need, because coffee is important in day to day, uh, existence? Is that the word I'm looking for here?"

The man behind her was as silent as the grave.

Curious, and wanting a reply, she turned as the machine purred to life behind her, humming idly while it started brewing her morning fix. "Bucky?" she called softly, trying not to spook him when she noticed the lack of emotion tugging at his lips. The man didn't answer, instead staring out the front windows, his posture rigid, and causing her mind to shoot back to the last time she'd seen him like this – almost standing in the exact same place, looking out the window with the same expression of panic.

 _Well shit._

Running to his side, she stared out to the street, trying to find what he was looking at, but with a hopefully less desperate gleam in her eyes. There was nothing there except – "The hell is this? The SUV circus in town or something?" she mocked, snorting at the line of black cars moving towards one of her neighbours before she blanched. "Oh shit, dude, they're going to the senators!"

Bucky spun to face her, no colour dusting his cheeks. "Senators?" he hissed, backing away from the window somewhat warily.

Reminding herself that this man was quite like a wild animal in the sense he was easy to panic, hard to soothe and quick to lash out, Samara swallowed. "Yeah, he used to be some big senator in parliament, so I guess I should say _ex-senator_ if anything? I don't even know. Apparently he's some big drug and gun trafficker? Got taken in for it a couple of times. Cleared of all charges though, of course…"

Bucky shook his head. "It's too close…"

Samara blinked in confusion. "What is?" she demanded, turning to watch the windows again. "I don't get it – oh fuck, shit, it's that chick!"

Panicking – maybe more than the situation required – she ducked, tugging the man down with her so they sprawled out on the floor. Blue eyes shot to hers, flashing in both anger and what she was slow to label as fear. "The red head?" Bucky guessed darkly, both palms flat against the ground. "I don't care if they're at the senators, it could just be a cover. We need to leave. Now," he demanded, grabbing her upper arm in silver fingers. "Get the car ready."

Samara almost fell in her haste to grab her car keys, mentally chanting that everything was going to be alright, and they were going to be fine and everything was going to be _fucking peachy_ and crap and... "I do not get paid enough for this," she murmured, slowing down once she reached her garage.

What if they were on the other side? Waiting for her to try and escape…

 _I don't have to say some spiel about how, because you've helped me, you're a wanted criminal as well?_

Hearing something crash behind her, she slammed the door open, breathing out in a rush when only the silver paint of her car flashed back. Stepping down, she flinched when a hard weight pressed against her back, taking a few seconds too long to realise it was only her own backpack. "Faster, we haven't got long if they're here for us."

Hearing the instruction, she spun and locked the back door behind them, realising with a flinch that she'd left the coffee machine on in the kitchen. Her electricity bill was going to be a bitch. "I'm moving," she breathed when another impatient touch landed on her shoulders. "And I'm also going to assume I'm driving?"

Throwing her body into the front seat, she slammed down on the reverse, checking behind her before trying to cool down and breathe. If she rushed, they'd know and see her panic and she'd ruin everything without even meaning too. Swallowingthickly, she fixed her mirrors and calmly asked; "And where am I driving too?" as the garage door opened behind her, achingly slow in its movements.

Bucky gave her an impatient look, but didn't push her along. "I need you to trust me, Samara – and I need you to just _drive."_

"Just drive," she repeated, reaching out to open her glovebox and fetch the glasses she stored there for sudden sun emergencies. "Here, put these on. Don't look at me like that, just don the sunnies, would you? Oh and maybe smile. Whatever they have on you in the description area will include broody, I bet my life on that."

Blue eyes disappeared behind black glass, and satisfied, she began to back up. "So," she started, voice growing pinched the further towards the black cars she got. "Mind telling me why we're running from the men in black?"

"Because we're wanted criminals?" And the little shit shot her a breath-taking smile as he said it, all white teeth and stubbled cheeks.

Samara winced despite the view. "Yes, thank you, didn't need the reminder," she muttered dryly, not sure how she managed to sound so deceptively calm. "So they're searching for aliens then, like the men in black do. Because you haven't answered the who they are bit, not that I really asked. But wait, is that what you are? Some cyborg alien thing, because _dude_."

The smile took on a hint of something genuine. "I'm not an alien, and I don't know who the men in black are," Bucky admitted, straightening up as they pulled onto the road. The men piling from the cars – in suits no less – didn't give them much attention. "But I do know who _they_ are."

They started driving, and damn it if she wasn't relieved when the rare view mirror remained empty. "Yes, and? You gonna finish that sentence?"

Bucky's smile faded into a tight frown, the youth the action had etched into his features disappearing as well, and she almost wanted to mourn the loss. He looked better when he smiled. Taking a breath in, and throwing her glasses back into the glove box, he leant back, hands to his lips. "That, my dear Samara, was whatever is left of SHIELD."

Okay, so she may have swerved, she may not have – no one had any solid proof either way.

* * *

 **I missed last week? That's a first for this story, but I can't promise it'll be the last. As you can tell, by the choppiness and general uh, badness of this chapter – I struggled a lot with it. But I couldn't make you all wait again so despite the flaws, I posted it. Sorry if it's not quite as good as usual.**

 **And yes, lol, HYDRA!Steve joke, damn I'm hilarious.**

 **Taila xx**


	13. Oh, to master blending in

The drive was silent. The woman beside him, his newest travelling companion, was silent. Everything was silent.

And he was concerned.

In the two odd days he known the bubbly doctor, he'd never known her too be quiet in _any_ sense of the word. Apart from the short hour when they'd been in that stupid supermarket, every second he'd been with her had been filled with sound – whether it was an artless ramble, or words chosen with military precision – and he was loathed to admit he liked it that way.

If her words were echoing around him, then his mind wouldn't create voices to fill the silence. It was simple. No, it was _self preservation._

Running a hand down his features, the soldier winced at the growl of stubble against his palm. "They tried to teach me how to drive," he murmured softly, realising that this was the second time he'd broken the silence between them. He probably missed her voice more than she missed his. "I didn't take to it, not to all this automatic shit the newer cars have. Motorcycles were always my thing."

Her fingers tightened around the leather casing of the steering wheel, whiskey eyes flickering his way for all of three seconds. "I didn't think cars would really be _that_ different," she replied carefully, chin lifting slightly. "They still have engines and pedals, don't they?"

Bucky let out a small chuckle. "Maybe, but the feel is different," he tried to explain. "These cars are smoother, react a lot quicker. They wanted me to learn how to handle them within minutes. I needed more time. But a motorcycle? Well, easier than breathing."

"The ones you would drive, back when you were…" Samara swallowed, one hand lifting to wave towards him. "They're still everywhere, you know? Vintage is the new sexy," she grinned slightly, but the edges were tired, frayed. "We could find one without really looking, if you wanted?"

He waved a hand in her direction to shoot down the notion, quietly curious if the gesture was genuine or made to keep him placid. Would she really go out of her way for him, or would she simply go out of her way to keep him settled? If he was standing where she was, unable to get away from a stronger force he couldn't take down, he'd no doubt react the same. Keep them calm, content and appeased and you might survive.

He would know – it was how he treated his handlers… How he'd dealt with Pierce and the countless others before him.

Bucky winced, the action nothing more than a twitch of his cheeks, before he was leaning away from the woman; forehead pressing against glass. "What I meant to say was that if you get tired, pull over and I'll take the wheel," he muttered, breath fogging up the window. The childish urge to pull back and draw something in the mist built in his chest, but instead he looked over the city – taking in the odd smattering of buildings and suburbs. "I might not be able to drive well, but it's passable."

He could feel her smile before he saw it, the air in the car warming with her mood. "Okay, so how do I say this without sounding like a bitch?" Samara mused beside him, forcing a startled blink to block his vision. "Okay, okay, no I got it – _you're not touching my bloody car."_

Still getting a taste for their strange sense of humour, he crowded her, the tip of his finger pressing against the steering wheel. "Touch."

"You're a piece of shit."

"I try," Bucky drawled, lifting his hand to once again brush over stubble covered cheeks. He'd never really thought about it before, not exactly having the time between assassinations, but now it was something that _bothered_ him. Was the feel of the coarse hair too unforgiving against skin, did it make him look too harsh? Scratching lightly at the rasp on his chin, he looked back her way. "So why can I not touch your car? Is it the arm, the penchant for knives or the bit about me being born almost a century ago?"

The doctor quirked up a brow, a small laugh sounding in the space between them. "Okay, for starters, I'll have you know I like your arm, so no it's not that. Second, I may not like your knives as much as the shiny metal arm, but I'll put up with them if they make you feel better," she promised with a short shrug. "And I've seen eighty years old who can drive better than me, so nope, not the age either."

 _I'll have you know I like your arm…_

Bucky clenched silver fingers, feeling the grind of metal against metal. "So what is it then?" he bit out, swallowing as he released the tension in the shining limb. The palm landed on his leg, and his lips curled up in disgust as a shock of cold travelled through the material of his pants, staining his skin. If she truly liked it like she claimed, then she would be the first.

"How about; _I may not be able to drive well_?" Samara squawked, one hand lifting to hover in confusion before her chest. "You admitted you can't drive worth shit, so like hell you're touching this car."

Bucky blinked. "Forgot I said that," he murmured quietly, nose twitching at the heavy smell of leather echoing through the car. Between the headache growing behind his eyes from the stink and the cramps plaguing his legs, he was beginning to sicken of the tight confines in the vehicle – which he swore was getting smaller with every passing mile. "Pull over, would you?"

A gentle snicker sounded. "Forgetting things already, hm? How's the old age thing going for you there, gramps?" she mocked lightly, perking up in her seat as she looked around the highway. "And sure thing. Every now and then you'll find these little stops along the road, maybe they're for emergencies or something? I don't know, but next one we see, I'll pull over and you can stretch your legs."

"You do that," the soldier grunted. "And I didn't say my legs were bothering me."

Samara sent him a smug look, whiskey irises bright with a knowing spark. "No, you didn't," she admitted with another shrug. "But you're fidgeting, and you keep rubbing the length of your outer leg." Without taking her eyes from the road, she reached out and pressed her hand against his thigh, applying a gentle pressure. "Here; Vastus Lateralis. The muscle in charge of knee extension. Lack of movement and forcing it to hold the same position is causing it to tighten up."

He should've moved her hand, slapped it away and cemented the _no touching_ rule, but the pain was ebbing away ever so slightly under her fingers. "Hence the cramping," he realised silently, mimicking her action and using his hand to push against the same spot on his right leg.

"Hence the cramping," the doctor repeated softly, shooting him a cautious look. "Uh, I used to get them a lot, mostly in my calves though. I was a serial road tripper back in the day. Always going to hospitals in different states, sometimes to be mentored or to mentor other doctors, or sometimes to visit the people I'd gone through medical school with…" she cleared her throat awkwardly, letting the sentence fade.

Bucky couldn't remember asking her about her past, but he nodded at her words anyway, pushing her to continue as he leant back more comfortably in his seat. He was perfectly able to listen, attentively even, if she was willing to talk to him without expecting much conversation in return. Besides, minutes ago he'd been begging to hear her voice say _anything_ – stories would do.

In the silence, the woman a sent a smile to her lap. "I might actually make a few pit stops along the way to wherever we're going, if you don't mind," she whispered, mind elsewhere before the content expression was directed at him. "What about you? Anywhere you wanna go?"

"Away from here isn't a place?" Bucky mumbled.

A startled laugh sounded, almost like the woman was shocked he had a funny bone. "Ah well, it is, but it's also kinda boring?" Samara tried, moving to dig her knuckles into his leg. The kneading action hurt, like a deep tissue massage, earning a pained hiss from the assassin. "Oh shush, it'll help until I can pull over," she scolded, poking out her tongue before correcting her posture. "But uh, since we're on the topic, where _are_ we going right now? I know I'm meant to drive, but am I meant to stop at all?"

Bucky eyed her hand, watching the idle and repetitive movements for a few untrusting seconds. "How far away is New York?" he questioned, hesitating before copying her actions on his other leg.

"What's the traffic conditions?"

He levelled her with a practised glare.

Samara only grinned in response, apparently not bothered by the icy glow to his eyes. "You're not looking at too long," she shrugged, wrinkling her nose back at him when he didn't lighten up. "Four to five hours maybe? If we go on the direct route from point a to point b."

The soldier nodded slowly, breathing out carefully before pointedly removing her hand from his leg. The relief from the pain was nice, but he couldn't, _shouldn't_ , allow too much contact. "We're not going from point a to point b," he murmured, holding the thin wrist for a few seconds. "That's too obvious. We need to circle around, make a wide arc and confuse any tails following us…"

"So you wanna travel through different cities?" she inquired, not twisting out of his grip, but instead just continuing to drive with one hand. She made it look so easy too. "We could, uh, maybe travel to Pittsburgh? Then continue in that direction to Cleveland, travel along the coast until we hit Buffalo – which hey, isn't too far from Niagara Falls if you're interested – then go to the big city from there? Does that count as an arc?"

Bucky pursed his lips. "It's good enough…" he muttered, desperately aching for an atlas. "How long until we hit Pittsburgh then?"

The doctor pulled a face, the fingers in his captured hand wiggling. "Uh, again, maybe four or five hours? I don't know. I failed geography mate," she excused, and began to strain in his grip, tugging against his hand until she was close enough to flick his nose in reprimand

Was he really still holding her arm? Hurrying to drop it, he straightened up, tugging on his oversized hoodie and rubbing the tip of his nose. "Pull over first," he instructed, deciding not to comment on the innocent flick. "I need to get out of this car for a few minutes before I last five hours."

"I have a better idea," Samara decided, gesturing with her head to an oncoming sign.

Bucky leant closer to the windscreen, brow furrowing. "A shopping centre? Wouldn't it be easier to grab food along the way, eat when we're hungry?" he murmured.

The dark haired woman rolled her eyes. "I'm grabbing the essentials. Yes, I know, our _backpacks_ , but did you bring toothbrushes? Shampoo and deodorant or other bathroom necessities?" she listed, clicking her tongue when he sent her a dumb look. "Uh huh. Also, I'm sorry, but you look like an idiot dressed like that. And even if people only look at you so they can snigger at your terrible fashion sense, that's still attention we don't want."

 _So much smarter than you look._

Bucky smiled lightly, covering his lips with his flesh hand to hide the action as he appraised the female beside him. It was a clever point she'd made, that the smallest flicker of attention was something they could live without, and he had to hand it to her for thinking of it. The clothing he wore clearly wasn't his own – it hung in some places while clinging almost dangerously in others, and the simple action of lifting his arms higher than his shoulders tightened the material, making any extreme fighting forms impossible.

And she'd noticed it all, seen it but not shown that she'd made the mental note. If he trained her right – if she'd had the training that he had – she would've been able to infiltrate the tightest prison with nothing more than a smile.

"The clothing I packed for you is a good fit, but buy something now for yourself as well," Bucky shrugged, lifting both brows when she sent him a sharp look. "It's the skirt."

Samara made an undignified sound, looking down to her lap as she pulled into a parking lot. "The hell is wrong with my skirt? This cost more than my education, I'll have you know," she snapped back, no heat lacing the words.

"We're trying to avoid attention," he replied simply.

She didn't answer as she carefully parked between twin cars, both monstrous and colourless, but as soon as the look of concentration passed, she rounded on him with flaming eyes. "This skirt is professional, and besides the wrinkles because I _slept_ in it, it's perfectly fine. It's my colour too, thank you. So how, pray tell, is this going to get me attention?" she demanded, folding her arms as the car died beneath them.

Bucky blinked, offering a wide smile. "It suits you quite well," he allowed, nodding in agreement and running a hand over his cheek again. "And yes, it is your colour. Quite striking."

Samara shifted awkwardly, and his smile brightened. "You're complimenting me? Okay, what did you do? Who did you kill?"

"I'm just trying to say that the skirt suits you, and it'll draw unwanted attention from the wrong crowd," Bucky placed his hand on the door, checking the space between their car and the one beside them before he pushed it open. "Or all crowds."

"Holy shit, you're _complimenting_ me. Are you feeling okay? I only ask because I'm concerned."

Bucky leant back into the car, gesturing for her to get out as well. "I'm perfectly fine, and don't get used to it."

He shut the door with the announcement, waiting for her to join him in the outside world as he stretched his legs gratefully. The museum had claimed he was a ladies' man, had made a few jokes about a suave edge he didn't know he had, and he didn't understand it. What was there to gain from playing around with any sex? It was a waste of time, and brain power – _but_ …

Messing up his hair as he watched the female clambered towards him, Bucky felt his lips twitch up. _But_ she had a nice blush. It was entertaining watching all of her blood rush to her neck and cheeks when all he did was make a comment. The reddish hue complimented her dark hair, made her eyes seem almost alien in their golden colour.

"I'm going to get you back for this, you know?" Samara warned, and when he snorted, her own lips grinned. "Hey, Buck? Do you know what skinny jeans are?"

* * *

Her eyes drifted towards the familiar, modern styled home a few doors down, taking in the open curtains but closed doors with a keen glare. She thought she saw movement, a sudden shift in the shadows hiding behind the darkened glass windows, but when nothing else happened decided she saw what she'd wanted to see. The hope that this would be easy, that she could find the solider within a few days was still lingering, but she knew it was exactly that.

Hope.

And nothing good could ever come of it.

"Agent? The senator is home," the nameless face behind shades appeared at her side. "So I've instructed the men to move in, and take him outside so they can search the house without him overseeing."

Natasha nodded, not bothering to acknowledge anything more about the man standing a few feet to her left. He'd been given the thumbs up, the _definitely not a bad guy_ seal by her informants so she didn't try analyse his every movement and expression. "Bring him to me," she murmured, noting the growl of car engines. "I'll have a little chat with him, see if I can get him to spill anything worth knowing."

"Of course Agent," the man moved away, not shifting too far from her side before he was distracted by another person in black.

As the agents continued their absent whisperings, she looked back to the new house, nose wrinkling in distaste. If Barnes really was here, still hiding behind the walls, then she was about to lose a few men…

But something told her he wasn't even in the neighbourhood – let alone still in the same house. Not anymore. He was an assassin, had received the best training available from HYDRA and whoever they could get their paws on. He wasn't _stupid_.

The red head sighed, rotating her shoulders and wincing at the small jolt of pain that thundered through her underarms. The failure of the doctor was still a little sore, both in the way she'd handled it and the aftermath in her blonde companion. It may have only been a phone call, but the devastation in the captain's voice was clearer than day.

After years of thinking he was alone, he'd realised he wasn't, realised he had someone else. Only to then learn, in the space of a few seconds, that he _didn't_ have someone else. That they didn't even remember his face.

It must've hurt.

"Uh, Agent Romanoff? One of the neighbour's is leaving her home?" the man in black was back, murmuring in her ear like a detached lover. "Should we stop her? Investigate the vehicle before letting her pass?"

Natasha waved her hand. "No, no just leave it. This is the house we want. Everyone else is void."

"Very well, but speaking of this house, I think it's owner is coming your way…"

Her eyes flickered upwards, taking in the man and his sweaty composure, both hands held behind his back as he stumbled towards her. The men holding him steady were impassive, bored and irritated by their cargo, and she cracked a smile. He was a chatty one then, someone who tried to assert their innocence within seconds and unconsciously told everyone he was actually guilty as hell.

So, there was potential…

Natasha's smile widened. "Back to work then, huh?"

* * *

Pressing the pages of the new novel against her lips, Samara used the paper to smother the smile threatening her composure, shoulders shaking with muted laughter. Behind her, the public restroom was growling and snapping, a string of curse words vivid enough to make a sailor blush sounding from the depths of the building.

"So, uh Bucky?" she started, biting her lower lip in a panicked hope to hide to her humour. "Uh, hm, are you okay in there?"

The sound of a hard body hitting something equally unforgiving echoed, and thankfully covered the sound of her laughing. The soldier didn't actually reply, but the loud curses and sounds of struggle was answer enough.

Samara rolled her eyes, fixing her own newly acquired hoodie. "Come on man, I'm already dressed," she called, moving to rap her knuckles gently against the doorframe. "In this day and age, if a chick beats you at getting ready, it's shameful and you should honestly be embarrassed. I'm not even kidding; your pride has taken a beaten today."

Bucky swore behind the closed door.

"Oh come on – dude there's three holes, right? The really big one, it's for your head, and the two smaller ones are where you put your arms," she announced slowly, hoping to sound mocking rather than amused. "You should be happy; I didn't even make you buy the jeans. I could've bought them and made you wear them, hid all your other pants so you had no choice."

Cue the second round of cussing.

"I could probably go grab a couple of pairs actually, and I could also probably make it back before you're ready to leave!" Samara sniggered, moving away from the door and slumping against the building. The hoodie wrapped around her torso was warm and plain, but the material itched in places, irritating the already sore skin of her neck.

Absently, she lifted a hand, rubbing the faint bruises lacing the pale column as she looked over the small park. They were both lucky the purple colour had faded into a sickly yellow – as she'd said before, any attention was bad attention.

The door clicked open, the familiar large form squeezing through the doorway with a grunt. "You alive?"

Bucky glared her way, but like back in the car, it didn't really seem to have any heat to it. "I'm fine, thank you," he growled back, tugging on the bottom of the new clothing. He looked simple enough, with dark pants and a coloured shirt hugging his frame.

"My, my, you almost look normal," Samara teased, reaching into the plastic bags by her feet. Tugging out a clump of black material, she held it out to him with a smile. "But this might help a little…"

The soldier took the gloves with a short nod, covering the sheen cast by silver digits as he looked around the small green lot. The park was literally dropped in the middle of nowhere, wedged beside the mall and the food court, but it was still brimming with children and families nonetheless and far too loud for both their tastes.

"Grab lunch and then go?" Samara offered after a few beats of silence, hooking up their purchases with her free hand. The other was still firmly gripping the book she'd bought, one slim finger marking the page she'd managed to read too. "I'm feeling something greasy."

Sweeping out his hand, the shine safely covered with black leather, Bucky gestured for her to lead the way. "Go on then," he allowed, nodding to her once before checking over his shoulder. "The sooner we're back on the road, the better."

As he fell silent, eyes still roaming the park for threats, she watched him from the corner of her own orbs almost warily. "Yeah, sure…"

She couldn't put her finger on it, but there was something different in the air between them now, something she almost dared to call companionable. He'd dared to put some trust in her, that much was clear by how he looked away from her when looking for danger, like he knew a threat to his person wouldn't be coming from her direction. It also shone in the way he was trading insults with her, pushing her buttons and then taking the rebuttal graciously, or maybe it showed in the way he'd _allowed contact_.

Yeah, wow.

When she'd touched him – stupid doctoring instincts seem to overrun her survival ones – it had taken a few seconds for the whole _oh shit you're about to die_ thought to enter her mind. And when it had, her eyes had all but snapped to his face and waited, morbidly curious if the thought of how he'd murder her would dance behind his own blue orbs.

But he'd watched, learned, and then copied her actions on his other leg without making a lull in the conversation.

So then she'd started pushing her luck, digging into taunt muscles with her knuckles because apparently she was hoping for a painful death. But apart from showing his wild side again – he actually hissed and yes, it was hilarious – he did nothing more against her, instead only gently removing her hand later with a pained look on his features.

Blinking, Samara took in the fast food branches absently, still a little occupied by the thought of the man now standing at her back like a silent shield. The knowledge that she had some trust was enough to keep a calm smile on her features, but the physical contact?

Well, she couldn't lie – she knew she was a hugger.

"Hey," she started, testing the waters again by gripping his elbow. "What are you feeling? Burgers and fries, or more something like… Yeah, okay, sorry, we've just got burger and fries on the menu? Unless you want a salad, but you don't look like the masochist type."

The hold she had on him was awkward, their bags dragging her hand down, but it got his attention well enough and he turned, both brows high. "I'll go with the burger," he decided, shooting her hand what he thought was a casual glance. It really wasn't, and she would've had to have been blind to miss the panicked confusion lacing his eyes. "Unless _you_ want a salad?"

"Oh no, we're not starting that dance," Samara snorted, letting him go and moving towards the compact building. "We're getting burgers. Come on, we'll get takeaway and then we'll leave. That kid over there keeps staring at me funny. I think he's made us."

Bucky's eyes flickered over the playground. "Huh?"

"The one by the slide, with the toy fire truck up his nose?" she pointed out, waving one hand in the kid's direction. "He's a criminal mastermind. Probably has all the other children locked in his basement."

The man just blinked. "Uh huh," he droned, humouring her. "He looks the part."

Samara slapped his chest lightly. "I know right," she muttered, narrowing her eyes. "Don't turn your back on him."

"I won't," Bucky sighed, pushing her forward when the lady behind the counter smiled their way. Absently she realised that one; she didn't know what she wanted, and two; he'd initiated contact again. "Now order your food or I'll make you get a salad."

* * *

 **One day late? I suck, I'm sorry, please don't be mad…**

 **I love how the action lasted all of three seconds, and now we have a road trip? This story is coming together well enough in my head, and I'm already mentally a few chapters ahead of what I've written, so yay? Now I've just got to get it** _ **on**_ **the paper…**

 **Argh**

 **Taila xx**


	14. Cheesecake with sweet and citrus sauce

"This is just getting ridiculous now."

As the phone hit the table with a clatter, blue eyes lifted in exhausted interest, watching as the man began to pace a hole in the carpet with quick movements. The billionaire had started a rigid line, shifting from end of the room to the other with tight and fast steps, his hands taking up any remaining space with wild actions. Any other day, the soldier would've found the mussed hair and crooked clothing amusing, probably would've hidden a smile at the sight actually, but now all it did was remind him of their failure.

 _I'm sorry, but it's another dead end… This guys doesn't even know who I'm talking about…_

Steve coughed lightly, trying to clear the lump clogging up his throat. "What's getting ridiculous?" he questioned, voice quietened by tanned skin. He was resting on one of the couches smattered about the living area, body splayed out and arms creating a solid prison around his head from which he could watch the other man move across the room.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and –

"This! All of this," Tony exclaimed, one had gesturing wildly towards the phone while the other raked through his hair. "He's one man Rogers, _one_! And we're a group of amazing, crime fighting, superhero types! We have access to any resource we might need to catch him, but he keeps getting away. We have superpowers, and all he has is a shiny arm but he's _winning_!"

Steve tried for a smile, offering the crooked attempt to the genius in penance. "Yeah, but it's a pretty awesome arm," he pointed out.

The bitter look sent his way made the smile widen, and he earnt a snort from the billionaire. "Don't pull that bullshit on me," Tony grunted, his quick pace beginning to slow into a steady gait. "I know you're hiding your man pain behind that smirk, Rogers. Don't be shy, let it out," he commanded, coming to a complete stop before the couch. "All that _conceal don't feel_ crap is for losers."

"And fictional characters," Steve sighed, lifting one hand to wipe it down his features. "I'm not hiding man pain, okay? It's fine, I'm fine, we're all fine," he murmured, tucking his face back into the cushion of his arms.

Weight settled against his side, the genius gingerly sitting on the edge of the cushions. "And wow, didn't that sound _so_ believable."

"I said it's fine." At being called out, anger started to burn slow in his gut, and he took a steadying breath to douse the flames. He couldn't lose his cool, not without a punching bag nearby.

"Did you? Huh, sorry, didn't hear you what with my mental lie detector going haywire," Tony mused mockingly, and absently the blonde noted he could feel bone pressing against his hips, sharp ridges of the man's spine digging into skin. "I'm gonna ask again, and we'll see what happens, hm? How are you feeling today? Bottling up any man pain?"

Steve felt his cheek twitch. "I'm not lying to you," he bit through his teeth, his chest tightening. "I didn't expect this lead to actually end up anywhere, so there's no disappointment."

" _Beep, beep beep!"_

Painfully slow, the soldier shifted so he could give the other man his eyes, the blue irises warning him away from the path he was treading. It wasn't that he didn't trust the genius; he just didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to push his problems onto someone else. He'd learnt rather quickly during the war that venting this crap out only got him two responses – either they'd feign their sympathy and he'd come to realise they didn't care, or the sob story would ruin their day and make them as miserable as him.

And he liked thinking that the man cared because he liked his illusions unshattered, thank you.

"What the hell was that?" Steve demanded lowly, using his elbows to prop his upper body away from the couch. If the genius so much as hinted that it had been his _mental lie detector_ , there'd be a swift kick in his near future.

Tony pretended to study his nails. "Oh that? Yeah sorry, that was my mental lie detec – _Gah!"_

Steve didn't spare the man a glance, instead settling back against the cushions with a strained sound. His hip was no longer warm, the familiar body now draped over the floor in a rather indignant position, legs askew and features slackened and pale. Tucking his nose into the crook of his arm, he spoke louder so the older male could hear him. "I don't want to talk about it."

A groan sounded. "You couldn't have just _said that?_ " Tony whined, and the rustling of material showed the man was moving about. "Not that I would've respected your space or anything, but I would've been smart enough to move out of reach before pushing your buttons. Damn, that hurt. Did you knee me?"

"Yes."

"Prick," the dark haired billionaire muttered, and weight pushed down on the side of the couch. "Okay, so you're upset, I've gathered that much. But why? You said you didn't think we'd find him this easily, so what's dampened your spirits, oh merry one?"

Blue eyes glared and the man quickly retreated to a safer distance. "Can we drop it?" Steve requested, the anger from before now a raging wildfire in his gut. He was pissed and he wanted to hit something _hard._

Tony pretended to mull it over. "No, we really can't."

It was the blonde's turn to groan. "Why?" he demanded, pushing up and settling with sending across a dark look. "When did you suddenly start caring about someone other than yourself?"

The question hovered between them, darkening the mood and making both men shrink back, repulsed. The soldier was appalled his own lips had uttered such cold words to the person who had been nothing but kind to him, but the other man had deflated, staring down to the carpeted floor like it held all the answers. But like earlier that day, the genius spoke up before he could even think of the words he wanted to say.

"I care," Tony defended quietly, giving nothing but an awkward shrug. "About all of you, really, I just – I just suck at showing it, you know? Emotions aren't really my thing. But at least I _try_ , Rogers."

The pointed words made the soldier think back to when they'd first saved the world as a team, how the man hovering before him had offered them all board at the tower for however long they'd needed. All of them had refused - sure they'd given pretty decent reasons, but aside from Banner who'd needed somewhere to crash, they'd gone their separate ways.

None of them had wanted to spend more than five minutes in the sarcasm laced presence of the other man. And honestly, Steve had thought the offer was a way for the man to have something to hold over him, a card he could play later on in the game.

But no, it wasn't an attempt at victory, but an attempt at reaching out. Tony had tried. And they'd all shot him down.

Blue eyes dropped to the floor in muted shame. "And by trying, you're doing better than me," Steve pointed out limply, eyes slipping close. "Come on, we should probably pull ourselves together. Natasha said she was heading over now that we've run out of leads, and I don't think we want her catching us with our pants down."

He started to stand, hoping to run, but a hand wrapping around his wrist stopped him short. "Steve, what's wrong?" Tony tried again.

Steve hesitated, licking his lips as stared down at the man. There was that infamous set to his stubbled jaw, the one that warned of the impending volcano about to blow, and the soldier hurried to weigh out his options before hell rained down. He could break the weak grip and wait out the storm in his room, maybe hide behind Natasha when she showed, or he could sit down and fess up, tell the man what was bothering him and maybe lose some of the weight on his shoulders.

He could be a coward, or he could be the hero everyone thought he was.

Once again, he closed his eyes. "What if we don't find him?"

Tony looked up sharply. "Steve?" he ventured, shifting slightly and adopting a pensive look. "Didn't I promise that we'd – "

"When he fell from the train, I didn't even look for him. Despite being told they never recovered a body, I hid under the military's skirts and tried to drink away the pain. I just – I _should've_ looked for him and I didn't. I was too scared that I might find him, that I'd see him broken in the river because I hadn't been fast enough to save him," the captain started desperately, slowly dropping his weight back onto the couch. "I never even looked, Tony, and he was my best friend."

The genius was already shaking his head. "No, no, I saw the reports and what you put as your statement – none of that was your fault," he argued, peeling his fingers back from the soldier's wrist.

"I wasn't fast enough to stop him from falling, and maybe that wasn't my fault, but I wasn't even _man_ enough to look for him and stop him from falling into _their_ hands. HYDRA found him because I didn't look," Steve shook his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "What if, because I'm sending out agents and assassins instead of looking with my own eyes, he slips past us again and they get him? I can't lose him, not now, not when I just got him back. I wouldn't be – I just _can't_ , not again."

Tony didn't seem to have many words, his lips moving soundlessly and eyes wide. After a few empty seconds, he found his voice again, uttering out a soft; "Oh…" before falling silent

And that was why he hated speaking his mind. The man cared, which was a miracle all in itself, but now the dark cloud hanging over his blonde head had found another target, another soul to reap and torture. Steve rubbed a hand down his face, the anger fizzling out and leaving a coat of ash that made him feel sick to his stomach.

"No," Tony suddenly muttered. "You know what? We're finding him. End of story."

"Tony – "

" _End of story, Rogers."_

Shocked into silence, the accused superhero gave a slow nod, watching the other man closer as he ran a hand over his chin. It was nervous tic of the billionaires, to scratch or pick at the coarse facial hair lining his features, but as focused on it as he was, the soldier noticed what the dark strands were hiding.

Gaunt, hallowed cheeks.

Narrowing his eyes, Steve pretended to bend in thought, blue orbs flickering up to take in the slumping posture of the genius close to him. The usually bright chocolate shade of his eyes was dulled, the lashes lines by dark, bruising circles that showed he was lacking in sleep. But his shirt – the same one he'd worn on the helicarrier – was loose, the material no longer hugging him but instead hanging from his shoulders and torso, hiding the thinning physique the man was nurturing.

And something told him, that if it was still at home in his flesh, the arc reactor would've been nothing more than a thin light, flickering like a candle in the wind. At the mere thought, Steve shifted awkwardly, once again feeling what he could only call shame licking up his cheeks. He'd been so damned focused on his own problems, that he hadn't noticed the world weighing down on his friends.

 _Damn._

Licking his lips, the blonde finally pushed to his feet. "Hey, you wanna grab something to eat?" he offered, tucking his hands away in his pockets. "I hear that even us superheroes need to do that whole _food_ thing occasionally."

Tony looked at him like he was insane. "Didn't you eat lunch like, ten minutes ago?"

"You didn't."

He could see the protest grow, the man's eyes dimming as he hunched in defence, but it never hit the air. After a few awkward seconds, the man made a small sound. "Kay, guess I could go for something sweet right about now. Wash the taste of emotions out of my mouth," Tony allowed, one hand lifting to wipe over his nape. "Ever had cheesecake, Spangles?"

Steve rolled his eyes, already herding the man towards the elevator. "I meant real food," he scolded lightly, pushing at weakening back. Now that he'd taken the time to look, he could see that the man was looking every day his age rather than the younger illusion he usually wore, lines wearing into his features.

But worst of all, he could feel bone under his hand when he grabbed the man's shoulder companionably.

"Cheesecake is real food, mother dearest," Tony announced knowingly, nodding as though he was trying to cement the fact into the history books. "Trust me. I once lived on it for a month. Perfectly healthy."

The soldier blinked. "You can have cheesecake if you have a proper meal," he decided, squeezing the skin under his palm. There was still sinewy muscle lacing around the smaller body, no doubt from the suit and heavy lifting the man did in the lab, but what little fat he'd had was long gone. "Something meaty. Ever had a steak, Ironboy?"

"Uh, it's Iron _man_ , 'cause you know, I'm a man. Not a small child."

Steve made a soft sound back. "Sure you are," he mocked, shifting to clap the genius's back. "But I'm sorry, I'm not going to treat you like one. You want dessert, you have dinner – or lunch. Steak, burger or whatever you fancy, then you're welcome to order the whole dessert menu if you want."

Tony grunted. "I ought to, you know, just to spite you," he grumbled, folding his arms and tucking them against his chest. "I'm a fully grown man, being told by an even fuller grown man that I won't get cake until I eat my vegetables. This sucks."

The apparently fully grown man continued complaining, resorting to colourful language at some points in order to get a rise out of his companion, but the blonde only nodded or laughed back. After the last twenty minutes, he didn't have it in him to feel anger or irritation – he was emotionally spent, and hoping for a mindless few hours to help him get over the bump.

Then when he'd bounced back, stronger and wiser than before, the genius rambling at his side was getting his full attention. Because there was no way in heaven or hell, that he'd be letting his _friend_ go down any road – dark or not – on his own.

And he knew post-traumatic stress disorder when he saw it.

* * *

"Change it."

"You change it."

"Last time I tried to touch your radio, you slapped me. Change it."

Samara sent a venomous glare across the small space, cheek twitching when blue eyes lit up in amusement. "This is the fourth radio station you've deemed unacceptable," she muttered, reaching out to slap a finger against the worn button. "First you turned down classical, then country, then the top forty and now you hate reggae. I'm not mad about the country bit, cause uh, _yuck_ , but what did classical music ever do to you?"

"It existed," Bucky answered easily, one shoulder lifting in a light shrug. "There has to be more than four genres out there. Find one I like and stop complaining."

Sending him another, apparently entertaining glare, she waited for the car to pick up another channel, heart in her throat. "Next thing you'll be telling me is that you hate happiness, or puppies," she grumbled.

The man shifted beside her, once again offering nothing but a limp shrug. "I'm more of a cat person."

Samara groaned loudly, barely resisting the urge to reach out and slap the man. "How? How can you be so horrible?" she demanded, biting her tongue as music flooded through the car and stopped the impending rant.

It had been less than an hour into their trip when the radio had been switched on to cut through the silence, conversation proving to never last longer than ten minutes without turning into bickering. She'd thought she'd come up with a genius plan – but of course, out had come the soured look, vocal complaints and the constant change of the station by a picky passenger. It was making her almost dizzy, grumpy, and she could feel a headache forming behind her eyes but _hey,_ at least it wasn't quiet right?

Wrong. Some sacrifices weren't worth it, and she'd prefer to bask in the awkward silence and –

"What's this?" Bucky asked, bringing her back to reality as he leant closer to the radio. "It sounds like that song you were playing that first morning, when you made me breakfast."

Samara tuned back into the real world, taking a few seconds to listen to the sound echoing around her. "Oh uh, yeah, same band," she allowed, nodding once before her head began to shift with the beat. "Must be the alternative rock channel or something? Or maybe just rock. Figures you'd be into this. I should've jumped straight to the heavy metal and saved myself the trouble."

Bucky's lips moved, silently repeating what she'd said before vocally announcing it, "Alternative rock…"

 _And that's his approval, good, maybe now he'll stop the nagging…_

Samara gave his curious look a small smile and nodded. "That's the one, big guy," she murmured back, focusing on the road and terrain surrounding it. They were still on the interstate, the ground conflicting shades of browns and bronzes with the sky clear above them in a sharp contrast of blue. It was almost photogenic, _almost_ , if there was more colour gracing the land then the odd green from bushes.

Despite the lack of diversity, it seemed to have a calming effect on the man sitting beside her. It had been easy to catch the tension in his shoulders when they'd started driving –a dislike of tight spaces maybe? – but over time it had eased away, leaving him almost boneless in the leather as he watched the world flying past.

And while she was happy to see him relaxing, legs splayed out every which way, she didn't want him falling asleep and leaving her alone in the land of consciousness. Because even if they weren't talking, it was nice to know she could speak and be heard instead of talking to nothing but air.

Years of living alone may have been what she chose, but a lack of companionship _wasn't_.

Flexing her fingers around the wheel, she spared the man beside her a quick glance. He was still slumped low, like he wanted to be able to duck if he had too, blue eyes glued to the world outside the window and legs spread in an artless slouch. "Comfortable?" she questioned after a few seconds, speaking into the silence between songs.

The person running the radio station started blabbering away as a dark head turned in her direction. "Could be more, but I'm not going to complain," Bucky mumbled, gloved hand hovering by his mouth and the other propping up his weight against the door.

"Why not? You're so good at that," Samara teased, getting bored of the continuous and seemingly endless road. "Did you know that in cars nowadays, the chairs can be shifted to suit a certain person's needs? Don't give me that look, I'm not lying. Look, down the side by the door, there should be some notches there," she instructed, gesturing to where it was on her own seat.

The blue eyed man sat up, brow coming together as he tried to look down the side of the chair before moving his hand. "What notches?" he grumbled, fiddling about with the levers if his strange wiggling was any indication. "I can feel something but what do I do with – "

The chair dropped back abruptly, taking both the man and his pride down in one swift motion.

"Oh my god," Samara giggled and pretended to be engrossed in the road, sparing her fallen comrade a few looks. "Are you – are you alright down there?" she asked lightly, trying not to grin _too_ widely at the shocked expression. Both hands had shot up, one hanging onto the edge of her own chair and the other trying to find a grip on the door. "If you wanted a nap you only had to say so."

A growl sounded. "You didn't warn me," Bucky accused, scrambling to find his bearings in the now flat backed seat. "And I'm not tired, _thank you,"_ he added darkly, no doubt plotting revenge already.

The doctor spared him another grin, biting her lip to keep the laughter bubbling in her chest at bay. "No I didn't," she admitted, sighing contently at the glare directed her way. "And it was totally worth however you're planning on getting revenge, I can tell you that now. Ever wish you had a camera on you sometimes? So you can capture special memories."

"Like my in progress plan of revenge?" Bucky grumbled. "That's going to be pretty _special."_

"Totally worth it."

The once solider frowned, trying to work out how to get the chair back _up_ now that it had dropped back. She could see the question sitting on the tip of his tongue, the request for assistance, but she could also visibly see his damaged pride so there was no doubt he'd try figure it out on his own first. And of course, if that didn't work…

Bucky grunted quietly. "How do I get it back up?" he murmured, voice quiet enough that she almost missed the words under the beat of the radio. Looking over at him to make sure he actually had spoken, she caught the hopeful glance he sent her way. "Samara?"

Sighing, she nodded to show she'd heard him. "Lean forward with it," she instructed gently, reaching out to turn down the volume. Neither of them were listening anyhow. "Give it a direction to move in." With another pensive frown, he did as he was told, hunching over too let the chair smack back into place before quickly taking his hand away from the levers. "There you go, now if you want to push it back again just – "

"I'm happy with how it is now…"

The interruption made a small smile grace the woman's face, a chuckle hitting the air between them. "I don't blame you, that must have been traumatising, you poor dear," she cooed, wrinkling her nose in his direction. "Bad chair. Naughty chair."

"You're mocking my pain," Bucky snorted, folding his arms against his chest.

"Yes, I am."

Silence then; "Asshole."

Samara made a sound suspiciously close to a squawk, whiskey orbs shooting from the road to his pout. "Oh excuse you!" she exclaimed, trying to adopt a frown rather than a grin. His use of the word she'd recently thrown his way was endearing, but also, well, _rude_ seeing as it was an insult and all that. "I am a picture of perfection; I'll have you know."

Blue eyes flickered her way for a split second. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called you that," he murmured, shrugging one shoulder before the corner of his lips quirked upwards. "But I assumed you already knew."

She managed to tear her eyes away long enough to send him a terrified look. "Oh god no, my sarcasm and genius wit is rubbing off on you," she realised, injecting false horror into her voice. "What have I done? I've doomed us all. The end is nigh."

"Stop being so dramatic," Bucky rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

"Dramatic? I'm sorry but have you not noticed that hell has frozen over?" Samara demanded playfully, tutting as she breathed out a loud sigh. "James Buchanan Barnes has a sense of humour, who would've thought? It's like you're a whole other person."

"You know I can still kill you and just drive myself, right?"

"And there's the Bucky we know and love…"

* * *

The slam of the car door was like a crack of thunder in the silence, earning a wince from the doctor when the sound bounced back. The next few seconds, the echo still rumbling around her, was spent waiting for someone to pop out of the shadows with a knife and crazy gleam to their eye.

Nothing.

Samara sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, shifting her weight about as she looked over the area around her expensive vehicle. It was dark, empty and unsavoury, but her passenger had demanded they stop in this kind of neighbourhood – even if her polished shoes and shiny car made them stick out like a sore thumb.

"I thought we were trying to avoid attention…" she grumbled, tucking her arms around her body.

"And I thought I said to wait _in_ the car?"

Spinning on her heel, the doctor almost fell over in her haste to face the new voice. "Buck?" she gushed out quickly, grateful when blue eyes flashed from under dark bangs. "Oh thank god, please say we can go now? Please. I'm begging you."

Bucky smiled wanly. "Not your kind of place?" he questioned, gesturing to the car with a jerk of his head.

Samara shook her head, already moving to get back in the vehicle and buckle up. "Not really," she admitted, giving a limp chuckle and awkward shrug. "I just – well, we kinda stick out, you know? I didn't want someone noticing that or someone taking a keen interest in my lovely automobile." With the man now beside her, she locked the door and started the car up with a rumbling growl. "So, why did we need to come here anyway?"

In response, he lifted a bag.

"Helpful," she noted, looking around before shooting onto the road. "But seriously?"

Bucky made an impatient sound, fishing around with one hand before pulling out what looked like a driving license. "Look," he instructed, all but shoving it under her nose. "I know multiple places in multiple cities able to create passable forms of identification. If I was too ever find myself stranded and unable to get into contact with my handler, I was to return to…"

Samara studied the small card, impressed with the quality. "You were to return to where?" she pushed, heading into a bright section of the city.

"Siberia," Bucky frowned, blinking rapidly at the passing landscape before continuing, his voice a drone. "If separated, I needed a passport to cross borders and use commercial airlines. Money isn't a problem, it's easily stolen, but a persona isn't. I needed to know where to create one if the need arose. Nearest possible location besides Pittsburgh was either New York or Montreal. Making the stop now is more logical."

The doctor swallowed at the words, noticing the almost mechanical voice they were delivered in. This order of action – separation, identification, regroup – was drilled into him like a lesson was taught to a child. "Well," she voiced loudly, checking the license one more time before passing it back. "I'm pissed. Everyone takes bad photos for their passports, but you? Nope. Is it actually possible for you to take a bad one?"

"You've asked this before…"

"And you didn't answer, nor provide proof that it was, in fact, possible," Samara answered quickly, breathing a little easier when the better part of town surrounded them. "Hence why I'm asking _again_."

Bucky stared at her for the longest time, saying nothing before he only murmured; "I don't know."

"I should try," she mused, looking around for a place they could crash. It was getting late, the latest pit stop taking over an hour of their time away, and they were both hungry and exhausted. "Use the camera on my phone and just snap a picture when you least expect it. I'm hungry, but I swear to god another burger and I'll be sick. Chinese food is always good right? I really want some, like, citrus chicken or fried rice."

Silence from beside her again.

"You ever had lemon chicken? Oh, no, have you ever had _orange_ or _tangerine_ chicken? Now that is a dish I would sell my soul for, you know? It's got tang from the citrus and usually the sauce is sweet too, so like, instead of sweet and sour sauces it's a sweet and citrus sauce. I'm not sure which I like more – sweet and sour pork is to die for – but I know it's bad for the waist line, know what I'm saying? Wait, _do_ you know what I'm saying? You didn't answer me when I asked if you've had it before and if you haven't, I feel a little bad for you right now and – "

A quiet sound made her voice die down, blue eyes looking her way with muted amusement. "You're rambling Samara," Bucky pointed out, shifting to throw the bag behind him. "Which means you're nervous."

The blunt comment made her flush. "Yeah, well, I ramble all the time, so get used to it," she grumbled. "It doesn't mean I'm nervous."

"Yes it does."

The doctor shot him a sharp look, slowing down when she noticed the glow of takeaway shops from the corner of her eye. "Well, excuse me, but when did you get a Ph.D. in all things _Samara Masons?"_

"Same time I got my passport," Bucky responded quickly, leaning back and pinning her under a careful glare. "Haven't you noticed it's easy to falsify legal documents? And I thought, hey, I'm getting a driving license anyway, might as well throw in a university degree."

Samara blinked in surprise, tearing her eyes away and instead putting all of her attention on the road.

A sigh echoed beside her. "Look, there's a motel, stop there and we'll walk back to one of those stores we just passed okay?"

Not saying a word, she pulled over and stopped the car, staring up at the cliché neon sign announcing the free internet and cheap rates. It was the type of motel one would see in every movie, the one with gaudy lights and a half asleep patron behind the front desk. But, because of the unsavoury nature, there appeared to be cars as polished as her own in the parking lot, rich men or woman cheating on their spouses away from their known territory.

They definitely didn't stick out.

"People are going to think that one of us is rich, and the other is a prostitute," she wagered, turning to shoot him a challenging look. "And I'm just going to say now that I don't look like a lady of the night, so prepare for a judgmental look from whoever's behind that desk."

Bucky spared the hotel a small look. "I don't think that whoever it is has the strength to show judgement anymore," he muttered, shaking out his shoulders before opening the car door. "Come on, I'm hungry, and I want to try sweet and citrus sauce."

Samara sighed but got out of the car, making sure her wallet was tucked into the tight pocket of her pants.

* * *

"I told you you'd get a judgement look."

"Shut up and eat your chicken."

* * *

 **There we go guys! Over five thousand words, damn, this is a monster chapter but I couldn't stop! It was really coming, and I didn't have the heart to like, cut this chapter or anything.**

 **So yeah, monster chapter it is! Hoped you all liked it, and thank you to the kind comments I've been getting. Means the world.**

 **Taila xx**


	15. Caffeine overdose baby!

He was a light sleeper.

If there was so much as a disturbance in the air around him, a fan turning on or a window letting in a draft, he woke up. If someone tried to sneak into the room, maybe even the _building_ , he woke up. He was trained to wake up at the smallest thing, be it sound or a change in light, because sometimes another assassin barely let out a whisper as they unsheathed their blade.

And it was right about now that his keenly trained senses were starting to piss him the hell off.

Because in a motel, where cheating husbands and unfaithful wives made rendezvous with secret lovers or cheap prostitutes, he was waking up roughly every five or so minutes.

Bucky continued glaring at the ceiling, his ears picking up the click of heels marching past the door of their room in a quirky pattern. That marked the third person in as many hours to finish their latest little romp, do the walk of shame back to their car, and then rev the engine for apparent good luck before tearing from the lot. The third person in as many hours who had woken him up with giggles and drunken words as they awkwardly stumbled over pavement.

One more time. He'd try to sleep one more time, and if he was woken up by some woman squealing at the touch of man, he'd grab his blade and play assassin – with or without the good doctor knowing about his night time activities.

Closing blue eyes, he took in a deep breath, trying to relax the slowly tightening muscles in his back and the still aching ones in his legs. The car ride to the new city, while a little painful, hadn't been as dull as he'd been expecting. The woman snoring softly in the bed beside his own had made the five or so hours fly by, whether it was with some game he'd never heard of – what was the honest to god use of I-spy? – or with idle conversation about the world or her own life before he came along.

And with such a conversation, came new knowledge. He'd learnt things about his travelling companion. Maybe not things he could use to kill her, or blackmail her with, but things he decided to remember anyway.

Things like her mother dying when she was younger, a step mother then stepping into the picture all too soon afterwards with coddling words and a falsely bright smile. Samara hadn't said outright that she disliked the woman, but it was clear in the curl of her lips when she spoke about her, in the way her eyes would narrow ever so slightly and turn the usually molten shade of gold into something darker and cold.

There was something there, something that wasn't mentioned in the sudden silence that had graced the car. But he didn't push – only listened as she talked about her father next, the man who'd steered her towards medical school in the _cliché hope I'll learn what killed mum or some other classic movie bullshit designed to make you bawl your eyes out._

Then she'd smiled, the curve of pink lips anything but genuine as she artfully wound the conversation around to him.

But he didn't have anything to add. He couldn't remember his mother's name, or anything about his family even though he apparently had three younger sisters he'd helped raise. He didn't remember their faces or their voices, if they had his eyes or maybe shared the same dark hair. Nothing. He remembered someone named Sarah though, someone with blonde hair and blue eyes, and he told her that much, but he didn't say he also remembered her funeral – running his hand over his slicked back hair as he tried to hold in his tears.

It was strange, feeling an emotion he couldn't call on again. He could remember crying over that woman, the one who'd seemed like his own mother at times, and he could remember the pain of loss, but he couldn't bring it back even if he tried. He knew what he was meant to feel, but he didn't know how to feel it. Even if he wanted to cry now, mourn someone he lost, he couldn't even bring the tears –

Bucky's eyes snapped back open, mind torn from his thoughts. _Sound. Movement. Soft breathing. Whisper of clothing against skin._

Someone was in the room.

His fingers inched towards his pillow, slowly making their way towards the only weapon he had left, and the one he'd hidden there before giving into sleep the first time. If he wanted to take this person out before they did damage – either to him or to his companion – he'd have to be quick, and take the risk of letting them closer. He'd need them to think he was out, sleeping like the woman beside him, and hope they went to take him out first. He'd have to hope they didn't touch her before could protect her…

A feminine voice hissed in the silence. "Ouch, shit…"

Recognizing the creak of the bed next to his own, Bucky forced himself to close his eyes again, to feign sleep as his companion stirred into consciousness beside him. The sound of the familiar voice made his chest loosen out of the tight knot, the instant fight or flight instinct waning back into the recesses of his mind the longer her breathing echoed.

Samara's voice sounded again, this time paired with bare feet on the floorboards. "Damn, damn, damn," she whispered, almost hobbling along. "This is what you get for spending five hours in a car."

Their room wasn't too big, and in a few steps the woman was at the filthy window; a small flash of light flooding the space as she looked out nervously. Carefully, he opened one eye and watched her, trying to keep his features smooth and inexpressive in case she looked his way. It was the same deal here as it had been with the potential enemy, just edited to suit the new situation – pretend to be asleep, don't call attention, and hopefully catch a moment of plotting or weakness he wasn't meant too.

The longer he watched though, the more confused he grew. She was just _staring_ , eyes scoping out the lot as her brow tugged together and one hand pulled uselessly on her night shirt. It was a nervous quirk many people adopted, and Bucky had to resist the urge to frown at the sight.

What the hell had woken her? There had been no sudden noise, no blinding light, and she'd been sleeping peacefully enough a few seconds ago – no signs of a nightmare or distressing dream.

"Shit…"

The breathy exhale was followed by the woman groaning again, running both hands through her hair with her nails scratching against the scalp. The dark brown locks were messy, one side laughably mussed, but she patted it down absently, continuing to stare out and let in the light. From where he was he could see her expression perfectly, could catch the occasional flicker of irritation, usually echoed by something more mournful or pained, dance across her features.

And, like before when he wondered what had woken her, he started to wonder what the hell she was _thinking_.

Samara scrubbed a hand across her eyes, lips opening in a wide yawn. "Alright," she murmured, dropping the curtain and stumbling back. "No one's stalking you. Time for beddie-byes…"

 _While asleep the brain still processes basic noise. A change in the sound environment around you can disturb your sleep, causing you to wake, move or shift between stages of rest. You're faking sleep, and she made a noise. React._

Snapping his eyes closed again, he feigned a sleepy murmur as he shifted on the mattress, not wanting to shatter the illusion that he was heard her footsteps falter somewhat before she snorted, continuing on her way towards the beds – but completely bypassing her own and stopping by his instead. Feeling her shadow looming over him, he fought to keep from tensing.

"You're such a dork," she muttered affectionately, and the bed dipped slightly under new weight, a warm hand pressing against his forehead. It took all his willpower not to flinch, and instead he let out another small sound in reaction. "No fever, good." The hand moved to tug down the covers lifted over his shoulders, lightly probing the area around his metal limb, the careful fingers switching between silver and bronze without incident. "And no infection, but you're feeling a little chilly."

And okay, maybe the motel blankets were a little _thin_.

"Treatment? More blankies for the dangerous murdery man," Samara slurred out through another yawn. The bed made a sound of protest when she moved away, the mattress resettling before an explosion of sound came from her own in the form of material rustling. "Damn, these blankets are about as stubborn as you are," she grunted.

In the next few seconds of silence, he felt new weight settle over him, another thick duvet adding to the collection on his bed. Bucky felt his brow furrow before he could stop it, eyes begging to open and pin her under a curious gaze.

She'd given him her blankets.

"Nighty night mister deadly assassin hunky man," was whispered his way, before he heard her pillow sigh under the brush of brown hair. "Don't let the bed bugs bite, cause in this motel you might catch an infectious disease and I didn't bring any potent ass antibiotics."

His lips pressed together to stop the small chuckle from escaping, one eye risking a peek towards her side of the room. He was right in assuming she was back in bed, her features hidden by random locks of hair and the edges of her sheets as both legs splayed out in opposite directions. She was sleeping like an octopus already, and she was still technically awake.

The octopus position was by choice then. How sad.

 _Takes up as much room as she can to hide the fact she's the only one in the bed. Lonely. No wonder she's so easy to manipulate. Wants company, attention. Keep giving it to her._

Bucky blinked, breathing slowly as the drone of words faded into a whisper in the back of his mind. It took a few minutes for the voices to fall silent, and for his companion to start back up with the odd murmur and soft snores, but when they did, he tucked the new blanket up under his chin and sighed quietly, giving into sleep with heavy eyes.

He'd think over the strange happenings tomorrow, maybe innocently bring up the question of why her blankets had found their way onto his bed over breakfast. He hadn't seen her blush since the woman behind the counter had shot her a thumbs up when they'd asked for a room…

Sleep came slow – another giggling couple came and left quickly though – but eventually when he succumbed to it, he didn't wake up again.

* * *

"I can't believe you…"

Steve knew it was unattractive, maybe rude, to sit there with his lips gaping and eyes wide, but he really couldn't help it. He tried to get his lips to reconnect, and he tried to hide his face until the blush wore down, but all he did was _stare._

Tony grinned back, ever the innocent charmer. "You dared me to do it, Rogers," he sung quietly, shrugging as he wiggled in the booth.

The blonde man blinked. "You just bought all of their stock…" he murmured, gesturing limply to the waitress as she wandered away, her own cheeks coloured in surprised.

Again, the genius wiggled, almost like an excited puppy. "I know, did you see that chick's face? Real candid camera moment."

"I can't believe you just did that," Steve breathed out uselessly, not really sure what else he was meant to say. There were probably a dozen different words appropriate for the situation – most colourful and more suited to a sailor than to him – but none of them found their way onto his tongue. So he just sat there, gaping like a slack jawed idiot.

Tony's face was bright. "I said I would. Don't test me."

He was starting to feel a little faint. "You actually bought everything on the dessert menu…" Steve realised, looking down to their battered plates in confusion. "You actually – _hey_ , you didn't finish your salad. I said no dessert until you finish everything."

* * *

She was gone.

He'd woken up, and she was gone.

Bucky cursed, throwing the blankets down to the end of the bed as he shot to his feet. He'd been praying to a god he didn't believe in that his senses would dull enough for a good night's sleep, and he'd gotten what he wanted. He'd sleep through, not only the night, but the woman who knew his current plan and whereabouts sneaking out the door.

"Damn it," he hissed, sprinting to the window and peeking out. The lot was empty of any official vehicles – none of cars were the same as the night before, but none of them were screaming _undercover_ either so he tugged the curtain back into place.

He had to think, and then he had to act fast.

 _Go to Siberia._

He had to think of something different, and then he had to act fast.

Moving towards the corner where he'd carelessly thrown his backpack the night before, he rustled through it, trying to find the small bag his new identification was hiding in. If the woman was smart, she would've taken her wallet with her, so he didn't have any money, but as he'd said the night before cash was easy enough to steal. He had what he needed to get out of the country before the people came for him. He just needed to pickpocket a few guys in suits, maybe corner one in a back alley and then he could –

"Yo Buckaroo, you up yet?"

Blue eyes slowly turned to the front door, listening as keys jangled loudly and a weight pressed against the creaking wood. "Samara?" he tested, pushing back to his feet and hovering in the corner.

The door swung open, revealing wind tussled hair and a bright smile. "Ah, good morning sunshine!" Samara called, walking in before kicking the aged wood shut behind her. It took him a few seconds to realise her hands were balancing cardboard, and that her hair was damp – most likely from a shower, seeing as her clothing was dry. "I got breakfast 'cause I'm counting this road trip as a vacation and I have a rule about not cooking while on holiday. You feel me?"

The assassin shifted on his feet, confusion dampening his mind. "Did you call me Buckaroo?" he questioned lowly, choosing to ignore the thundering pattern of relief his heart had taken up.

Samara winced. "I was hoping I could get away with it 'cause I thought you were asleep, but…" she gestured to him with a sharp jerk of her chin. "Clearly you're awake. Okay, here's the deal. I give you hotcakes, you forget that nickname ever happened."

He didn't even hesitate. "Deal."

The smile she'd been wearing before came back in full force, almost blinding him as she wandered towards the beds. "Now, this place doesn't have dining tables – classy, I know – so we're having breakfast in bed," she announced, carefully placing the cardboard containers on his duvet before holding up a fogged out takeaway cup. "Here. I got you a frappe."

Gingerly, he took it from her, frowning at the cream peeking out from the top. "Thank you," Bucky allowed slowly, watching her in silence for a few more seconds before following her actions and sitting down.

Alright, so she _wasn't_ gone.

And he was an idiot.

Across from him, she was already opening one of the white containers, a plastic fork between her teeth. "These are basically the pancakes I make," she explained around the utensil, giving him the same smile. "Only these ones will give you heart disease and high cholesterol. Just be sure to smother it in the syrup and butter, because hey, you're gonna have a heart attack anyway – might as well make it worthwhile, you know?

Not sure how he was meant to respond – he thought she'd left, he was such an _idiot_ – he lifted the cup in his hands. "What's this?"

Whiskey eyes flickered up. "Mocha frappe?" she informed him, waving her own cream laden drink in his direction. "I have a feeling you like chocolate and milk – don't ask, just accept it – so then I thought _hey_ , maybe he likes chocolate, milk _and_ coffee."

Bucky looked down at the thick frothy mixture, lip curling. "It's edible?"

Samara adopted an exasperated expression. "No, they sell poison at four bucks for a small, and five fifty for a large," she mocked, pointedly taking a hearty swig from her own cup. After a few seconds her eyes fluttered closed and she wiggled happily. "Oh, I wanted to glare but I forgot how goddamn good these things taste."

When the doctor didn't drop dead after drinking, Bucky carefully sipped at his own, nose wrinkling at the strong hit of coffee sweetened by dark chocolate. It took him a few more seconds to warm up to it, but soon the sips turned to gulps. After demolishing almost half of the beverage, he looked up into smug honey eyes. "What?"

"Knew you'd like it," she sung quietly, grinning again as she crossed her legs under her body. "I'm like, the Bucky-Whisperer."

Taking another swig, he cocked a brow in question.

Samara sighed dramatically, eyes rolling skywards. "I'm not explaining that to you, it'll take too long," she decided shortly, poking out her tongue. Her good mood was almost infectious, and despite the earlier fright and panic – _idiot_ – he found a smile tugging at his own lips in response to the carefree one lining her own features.

He didn't know where it came from, or what the cause was, but she was better happy and he wasn't going to question it.

"I didn't take you as a morning person," he murmured around his straw, free hand playing with the lid of his own breakfast. He wasn't exactly hungry yet, his body still waking up, but the sweet taste of the drink was hard to resist. "Thought you needed coffee to function?"

The doctor lifted the takeaway cup in a mock salute. "This is my third one this morning!" she announced loudly, reaching out to playfully tap it against the plastic of his own. "Speaking of, if you want another one, just tell me and I'll go out again. Four's my lucky number anyway so where's the harm in grabbing one for both of us."

The offer was paired with another lazy smile, and he blinked in muted surprise. "Thanks," he muttered softly, a frown tugging at his lips as he watched her grab a matching white knife, focused solely on the hotcakes in her lap. It was with medical precision that she cut each one into perfectly accurate shapes, managing a heart, star and hexagon before she got bored and beamed up at him again. "How many surgeries have you done?" he wondered aloud.

Samara seemed thrown by the question but recovered quickly, reaching out for the whipped butter beside her leg. "More than I care to count," she answered carefully, clearing her throat. "On average, I'm doing two to three serious sessions a week. By serious, I mean longer than five hours with a patient who's under anaesthesia and team of nurses with me."

"Where do you do them?"

"Private practise," she shrugged, picking up a piece of cooked batter and studying it. The high from the coffee seemed to wane under the weight of a serious conversation. "I own a modest building, and there's a wing in the local hospital back home I provide for – you know, any extra costs or equipment they need comes out of my pocket. If I need too, I can use the facilities there."

Bucky lifted an interested brow. "You sound rather wealthy," he noted. "Hospital equipment doesn't come cheap."

The doctor shrugged again, less gracefully though, and more exhausted. "It's a cancer ward for kids," she murmured gently, swallowing before looking up with dulled golden eyes. "And yeah, I have a lot of bonds and more savings accounts than I should, but…"

"But?" he prompted, finally getting the demands from his stomach to eat.

"I'm scared to spend it?" Samara chuckled mirthlessly. "Do you know how much medical care in this country can cost? Or how much money it takes to go to a decent college? I guess I just – I wanna keep all I can, hoard it in case there comes a day where I can't earn it anymore but need it more than ever," she finished on a small whisper, and his mind flashed back to the tale of her sick mother.

Bucky nodded slowly, not bothering with cutlery as he scooped up an entire hotcake and dipped it in the syrup gathering on the corners of her takeout container. "Like a dragon hoarding all her jewels," he compromised, catching her irritated look as he went back in for syrupy seconds. Despite looking annoyed, she didn't stop him. "It makes sense. To me at least."

Samara sighed quietly. "Let's just call it a back-up plan?" she offered, rolling her eyes as she opened another bottle of syrup. After struggling with it for a few seconds, she leant closer and dumped it over his hand with a cheeky grin.

He shook off the sticky sweetness with a glare. "You don't act like it," Bucky pointed out carefully, wrinkling his nose at the crap slathered on his hand. "I mean, your house is modest, car doesn't seem to be made out of gold, and you don't splurge much from what I saw of your home."

The woman blinked, pausing as she licked her fingers. "Did you not hear the whole hoarding bit?"

"You're spending money happily now," he quirked up a brow, looking first to the meal in his lap and then to the clothing covering her body. "Yesterday, back at the _mall_ , I didn't see you once look at a price tag. Why?"

Samara grinned, like he'd asked the million-dollar question. "I'm using my credit card," she exclaimed with a flourish.

 _And_ he didn't know what that was.

Instead of admitting to the hole in his knowledge, Bucky blinked back. "Right," he drawled, rolling up another hotcake before curiously looking around for the butter. "Are these better with syrup or butter, do you think?"

"Uh, dude, why not both?"

Finding an untouched packet, he tore it open with his teeth, and nodded. "Why not both?"

* * *

Nobody could eat this many muffins, determined or not, or that many slices of heavy chocolate cake without dying from shock. He wanted, oh so badly, to point that out and suggest they start handing out free cakes on the side of the street but he knew that if he did, if he dared open his mouth – he'd be taking care of a genius with a stomach ache.

Because higher level of intelligence or not, if he was told he couldn't, Tony would try eat every last crumb.

Steve continued to stare down a box filled with sweetened blueberry muffins, his nose wrinkling at the thought of how much sugar he was looking at. "You're set for life," he murmured.

A happy sound echoed from beside him. "I know right?" Tony spoke around a mouthful of devil's food cake, lips stained a chocolaty brown. "When you and falcon boy moved in, I was thinking about hiring a cook so you'd always have food ready, but now I don't need too. Now we can live solely on cheesecakes for the rest of our days!"

The blonde looked to his side, where an untouched cookies and cream styled cake sat innocently. It was tempting. "Where's the nutrients?" he asked weakly, one hand sweeping over the large expanse of food covering the dining table and kitchen counter. "You won't be getting any protein, or the recommended intake of vitamins. Apart from the milk in the chocolate and the cheese in the cakes, you won't be getting calcium."

The chair nearest to him was kicked out, brown eyes rolling. "Capsicle, sit down, shut up and eat cake," the billionaire instructed, already reaching out for his second slice. "I ate the damned vegetables like you wanted. Now you eat the damn calories like I want."

Sparing the messy face a quick look, Steve sighed and gave in, hand closing around the plate holding the cheesecake from before. "I'm not holding back your hair when you puke this up later," he warned.

"Oh no, whoever shall I get to do it now," Tony commented dryly. "My long locks will surely perish."

Giving a scolding look, the blonde soldier demolished almost a whole slice with one bite – much to the entertainment of his companion who whooped in joy beside him and demanded _another._

* * *

She helped him this time, sitting outside the car and showing him which lever did what and how far to pull it so the chair would shift back. It took him over ten minutes to manage to create more room for his legs, and he expected her to lose her patience at some point, but whenever he floundered she would smile and repeat the instruction.

It was… nice, having a teacher who didn't punish failure.

Bucky wiggled about for a few seconds, adjusting to the different feel and stretching out his legs happily. "This is better," he decided, one hand lifting to swipe wet hair away from his eyes. "Almost like laying down."

The doctor smiled his way, tucking twin bottles of water into the display between their seats. "Told you so," she shrugged, donning a pair of thick black glasses as she started up the car and checked the lot for movement. "At least this time you actually managed to move the seat without losing your pride in the process."

"I still blame you for that," he muttered, lip curling up as he lounged back, taking full advantage of the comfortable material under him. "Did we get everything from the room?"

Samara rolled her eyes. "You made me check, then recheck, then do a recheck on _that_ recheck," she drawled. "I'm positive we got everything."

Bucky nodded, rubbing at his own blue orbs when they reminded him of his lack of sleep the night before. "How long until we hit Cleveland?" he questioned next, wondering if he had another five hours to look forward to, or if it was thankfully shorter.

A graceful shrug was his answer. "Uh, that reminds me we need to buy an atlas," she chuckled, pulling out onto the road with sharp and practised movements. "But it's not as far away as Washington was, so less than three hours would be my guess." Even with the sunglasses he knew when whiskey eyes were watching him. "You wanna catch a few winks?"

The soldier quirked a brow at the strange sentence.

"Sleep, genius, do you wanna sleep?" Samara snorted, slumping back when she hit a red light. "I'll wake you up if anything interesting happens? Not that it will, what with our destination being Cleveland of all places. Why couldn't we travel through Las Vegas or something?"

Bucky shifted nervously, happy to listen to the woman ramble if it got him out of answering her strangely posed question. It was different, sleeping when she was sleeping, they were both weak then, both easy pickings. But if he slept now, while she was driving and wide awake, there was no guarantee he'd be waking up without handcuffs wrapped around his wrists.

Clenching his fists, he swallowed. "Yeah," he decided slowly, giving her a nod. "Yeah, I might catch a few hours."

Samara smiled lightly. "Kay," she allowed, getting more comfortable in her own seat. "We'll hit Cleveland before lunch, so you want me to wake you up when we hit the outskirts of the city? Then we can decide on where to eat."

Her question was honest, smile open, eyes warm despite being hidden from him. Bucky could see no signs that she was mentally planning to hand him over, no sign that she was already texting the police with the hand that had disappeared at her side a few minutes prior. So, biting his tongue, he smiled back blandly. "Sounds good," he murmured, closing his eyes and stubbornly refusing to open them until he fell asleep.

He could trust her.

 _He could trust her._

* * *

 **Okay, so about five hours ago I posted chapter thirteen, decided I couldn't sleep because a friend is out of the country and I'm worrying too much and smashed out another chapter. Keep in mind that one, this is shamelessly fluffy and cute and I wanted it that way cause bonding, and two, it's just past one in the morning and I'm tired.**

 **If this is tiptoeing the 'huh?' line that's because there isn't enough coffee in the world to save my soul right now. Anyway, good to know this week's chapter is going to be on time, since when I post this, I wrote it** _ **last week**_ **.**

 **Confusing. It's like… Fanfiception.**

 **Taila xx**


	16. Single bed

It had taken her a while, but she'd done it.

She'd finally figured him out.

Samara narrowed her eyes at the road, resisting the urge to glance the man's way, and instead tightening her already harsh grip on the steering wheel. It had been over three hours now, and every minute had been wasted away in thinking circles around the assassin beside her, in devoting every last rational piece of her mind to putting his puzzle together.

And she'd done it. Eventually the rational mind had to take a break of course, but she'd figured him out. She'd exhausted her mind, but she had him cornered now. There was nothing he could hide from her, oh no, not from her keenly trained senses.

She was like an assassin herself in that aspect, able to pick up on even the sma –

Okay, so maybe she _hadn't_ figured him out.

It wasn't exactly her fault either – as she'd said; the damn man was like a puzzle. One that just happened to have a million pieces with most of them missing – probably because he's a sadistic little shit and hides them when she isn't looking – and no photo on the box to show what the pieces were meant to create.

If she had to put it in _simpler_ terms, then she'd say someone had basically just thrown chunks of cut out cardboard at her and told her to make a pretty picture.

It wasn't like it was her job to put this man back together again though, right? She hadn't even known him before he'd lost the picture on the front of the box telling him how he was meant to be. And it wasn't like she knew the memories behind the puzzle pieces he was missing, not when he barely seemed to know them himself. All she _did_ know was him as he was now, missing pieces and all.

Her hand floated towards her head, rubbing absently at the space between her eyes as pain blossomed into being. Even if she wanted to help him, she wouldn't be able to do all the work on her own. She'd need him to tell her things, to pass her the pieces and not get mad when she tried to cram them into the wrong places. She'd need...

She'd need to not suddenly turn this into a sappy puzzle metaphor is what.

"God damn it all, I need more coffee," Samara realised in horror, shaking her head to release the confusing thoughts. "I need coffee and sugar, and something to get my mind away from freaking puzzles. I don't even _like_ puzzles. What's the point of making a picture only to cut it into weird shapes, pull it apart and then put it back together again? Honestly. Humans are dumb."

For some reason, she turned as she spoke, looking to her sleeping passenger like she expected an answer. In lieu of replying however, the man let out a small murmur, something similar to a purr before he shifted and resettled into the leather.

Samara snorted. "You're no help," she muttered, clicking her tongue. "Why are you never any help?"

Bucky, still fast asleep, mumbled something about freight trains.

"Oh right, I forgot you're a sleep talker as well as utterly useless," the doctor mocked, slumping back and gloomily staring out at the road. The same black tar and coloured lines stared right back and she almost screamed in sheer frustration at the sight. "I swear to god..."

And now the deadly assassin was sprouting some bull about blue eyes? Leather squeaked as the man shifted in place, lips curling downwards into an unhappy pout and head lolling about until he was facing her direction. With a quick peek away from the road, she confirmed that he was still fast asleep, and that his lashes were still unfairly long and brushing against his cheek bones as he dreamed.

"Blue eyes," she repeated softly, biting her own lip as she thought. "I don't know? You're looking for the last _blue eyes white dragon_?" Her own laughter echoed in the car, sadly alone and sadly pathetic. "Oh my god dude, my rapier wit is wasted when you sleep, honestly."

A small hum built in his chest, almost melodic as it hit the air.

At the sound, Samara couldn't stop the small smile growing on her lips – it wasn't like he'd see it anyway. "Okay, that's actually a little cute, I'll give you that. Answering me whenever I talk to you?" she chuckled, eyes lighting up at the sign announcing their next destination. "Buck, thank god, we're here, we can eat and have more damn coffee because I need it. Badly."

She almost expected him to wake up at the sound of his name, but he kept sleeping, eyes still framed by bruised circles. Seeing them, she winced in sympathy, her lip once again becoming caught between her teeth.

"Maybe a few more minutes?"

As predicted, he didn't answer her with words, but a small sound came out with his next breath.

Samara nodded, giving a short chuckle. "I don't even know why it looks like you barely slept a wink," she revealed, swallowing thickly but still turning to look at him as she spoke. It was polite after all. "I mean, out of both of us, I was the one that was constantly waking up and every time I did, you were out of it."

The words weren't a lie, far from it actually, but she still felt bad for saying them out loud, like she was lying to him by omission. She had been waking up multiple times during the night, and felt like she'd barely managed any sleep at all, but she'd been waking up because of _him_. He didn't snore or sleep talk – okay he talked, but not loudly – and he hadn't woken up and banged about in their tiny room.

He didn't do anything.

It was her own messed up body that had decided hourly checks needed to be a thing. Her own mind that had decided her companion was worthy of being cared for.

"So, if you're interested, no one followed us into the motel. Because I checked, like, a dozen times," Samara frowned, trying without success to turn it into a smile. "And I also checked your temperature – you're actually a little above warm, what's with that? I think it has something to do with either your arm, or whatever the hell this super soldier serum shit you keep talking about is. Because dude, I'm not dumb and you keep mentioning it so I'm gonna assume you've been juiced up until told otherwise. And anyway, with the way you eat, I wouldn't dismiss the notion that your metabolism is spiked."

Once again, she failed to turn her thoughtful frown into something brighter. "But uh, yeah, and the infection isn't back..."A sigh sounded from her lips, her eyes dropping to her lap almost shamefully. "Cause I checked that too..." she admitted after a few silent seconds. "You know what, let's just assumed I checked everything. Might be less embarrassing if I don't have to own up to it."

No answer from the assassin. At least that meant he was still asleep.

Running a hand through her hair, soft from the mornings shower, she tugged lightly on the strands; hoping to install some semblance of dignity with the action. "Right... uh, lunch is a thing and I said I'd wake you up so..."

Untangling her fingers from dark locks, she reached out for the sleeping soldier, almost nervous to wake him up despite promising she would. Early that morning, when she'd left the motel room, she'd missed his initial waking – therefore missing the opportunity to figure out whether he was a morning person or not. So for all she knew, shaking him awake was the same as signing her death contract.

"Buck?" she tried, quickly glancing between the road and his closed eyes. "Come on sleeping beauty, I'm not kissing you so you have to wake up all on your lonesome."

Throwing caution to the wind, she gave his shoulder a gentle shake.

Metal fingers batted her hand away, lips moving to let out a quiet defying murmur before the man was trying to roll over – as much as he could manage without tangling his body in the seat belt. Surprised, the doctor made a sound in return, her lips pursed in thought as she stared down the back of a dark head. Her fingers almost ached from the absent hit by silver, but she managed a pout nonetheless.

"Rude," Samara grumbled, straightening out her shoulders. "You leave me no choice then. Desperate times call for desperate measures. If it makes you feel better, I'm really _not_ sorry for this... 'Cause I actually, maybe, kinda think you deserve it."

Reaching out with the same care as before, she delivered a sound slap to his disgustingly defined god like cheek bones.

 _That'll show the little shit._

Coming back into consciousness, Bucky spluttered and shot up, his hand automatically floating down to the side of his seat – the same place he named his new blade sheath. "What the..." he murmured, voice still thick with sleep as he looked her way, blue eyes bleary and adorably confused. "Sam? What happened?"

The woman almost blanched at the nickname and, admittedly, felt the urge to look around for the secret camera meant to film her reaction. This wasn't real. The deadly dangerous assassin man was the affectionate type when he woke up? _Yeah, uh, no._ "Must've hit a pothole," Samara muttered after a few silent seconds, narrowing her eyes at the man. The bastard was trying to prank her or something, she just knew it. "Uh, think about what you just said."

His brow crinkled in thought, lower lip jutting out. "I said _what happened_?" he tried, silver fingers lifting to rub at his eyes sleepily. If the woman wasn't gaping at the cute display by then, she almost died when he threw in a small and dare she say, kitten like yawn. "That's what I said right?"

The doctor gave a slow nod. "Uh huh, but uh, you..." Samara turned to give him a stern look, really she did, but blue eyes still clouded by dreams stared back and she deflated. "That's right. So, where you wanting to go for lunch _Buck_?"

She shouldn't have felt proud for the extra emphasis on his name but she did.

The assassin was still rubbing at his eyes, unaware of her internal struggle. "I don't know," was murmured her way, voice slightly hidden by the tanned fingers now lifting to join in the facial massage. "You've picked out pretty good food so far, so wherever you want to go is okay with me."

Samara couldn't help but nod in agreement. "Well, you did like the burgers and the pizza. And don't get me started on your already unhealthy obsession with pancakes," she added hastily, still almost gaping when he openly chuckled at her words. She liked the _just woke up_ look on this man more than she was liking broody and dangerous. "What did you think of the food last night?"

"Um, the citrus sauce?" Bucky remembered, looking her way almost hopefully. "It was good. Why?"

The woman shrugged. "Curious is all," she promised, waving her hand in dismissal. "Okay, okay, so you seem to be pretty happy with it all so far, but how about we just find a small corner cafe or something? I could really go for some home cooking and a good old slice of cake, you know?"

"Whatever you want," Bucky rehashed, smiling dopily in her direction before looking out the window. Blue eyes watched the world outside curiously for a few seconds before he hummed softly. "How long was I asleep for?"

Samara was tempted to hum a tune back. "A few hours maybe? I mean, we're in Cleveland, _yay_ ," she pumped a fist in the air before continuing, "But you still look a little tired? After lunch I'll keep driving onto Buffalo, and maybe you should sleep some more. Not too much though, or you'll be up all night tonight and I'm not going to spend my hours entertaining your ass."

 _You should sleep so I can wake you up again 'cause your adorable game is too strong..._

The man was clearly beginning to wake up now, his eyes losing their almost innocent sheen and instead hardening up. "Yeah," he breathed, shaking his head before giving her another smile and _damn_ , he really was spoiling her today. "Nothing happen on the drive here?"

He was smiling, and laughing, and now initiating conversation? The hell was this...

Samara licked her lips. "Uh, we passed an accident? It didn't look like anyone was injured, so there's that. But we also passed this weird little like, cop stop or something? I don't know what to call it," she shrugged. "Dude in blue asked some questions, threw me a few smiles and then I was on my way. Seemed innocent enough to me."

Bucky straightened up, carefree attitude hitting the floor and sinking. "The authorities?" he questioned, tone showing he was double checking who the hell the men in blue were. When she nodded, his lips pressed together. "And?"

"And there was a line of cars, so I had time to cover your arm with my hoodie, made it look like it was just a makeshift blanket or something," Samara tried for another shrug, trying to show nothing was wrong. It helped a little, his own shoulders slumping down slightly. "When we reached the front, I spun some bullshit story about a road trip with my boyfriend. Said that the accident in D.C made me realise life was short, so I wanted to see more of the world with the people I love. Poor guy must've been single; he was asking all kinds of questions about our _relationship_. So uh," she grinned his way. "If you ever talk to a cop named Stephen, we meet when I spoke at a public conference about male health. You have severe erectile dysfunction. I'm sorry to tell you like this."

The man's brows were almost at his hairline. "I have what?" Bucky demanded, blue eyes lit up in amusement. It was almost strange to see him so warm – all he'd done was take a damn nap. "Actually, no, don't answer that."

Samara let out a fake moan. "But I totally have a speech on erectile dysfunction prepared and everything!" she argued. "Well not really a speech, more a whole, you're not alone and it's okay thing. I accept you for who you are, erectile dysfunction and all. I mean, did you know that erectile dysfunction can have psychological consequences and can be tied to your lack of a masculine self image?"

"I dare you to say _erectile dysfunction_ one more time," Bucky warned, both brows still comically high. "And I wouldn't question my masculinity if I was you, it won't end well for anybody."

Grinning his way again, she blinked innocently. "What cafe should we go too?"

Approval lined his features and he gave a lazy smile back, relaxing into his seat. "Whatever one looks like it has good food," he answered simply, moving to rummage through the glove box. It took him a few seconds, but he came away with twin black gloves, the material sliding effortlessly over silver digits. "I'm going to hate eating with these on, and I hate wearing that damn hoody you bought back in that mall. It scratches."

"We could always get it to go, you know?" Samara pointed out, unable to not feel worried as he shrugged on his thick sweater. It _did_ look rather uncomfortable. "Maybe eat at a nearby park? Some place with a nice view, some shade and no eyes perving at your hands and shit," she recited wistfully, eyes now on the lookout for the nearest decent looking cafe. It wasn't a hard standard to reach thankfully – coffee made even the crappiest place decent to her.

Bucky hummed. "So poetical," he allowed before sighing. "That would be better, thank you Samara."

The words fell from his tongue awkwardly, but she took what she could get. "You're very welcome," she wrinkled her nose before playfully adding, "What, so not _Sam_ this time? I go back to the cold land of _Samara?"_

The soldier looked shocked. "Sam? When did I call you that?"

"Dude, literally like ten minutes ago."

For a few seconds, he almost looked scared, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't be, eyes wide with horror. But the panic waned when she kept up with the smile, and soon he tried for one in return, shoulders curling over protectively. "I can't be held accountable for what I say when I'm still waking up," he defended uncomfortably, his throat moving in a swallow.

Samara snorted. "Oh please, I'm totally holding you accountable for everything you do ever," she decided, looking his way with a _please_ expression plastered on her features. "So, what's the haps then? Have I been upgraded to nickname status or am I back in the acquaintances zone?"

The poor guy was blinking now, eyes showing how lost he was as a flush covered his neck and cheeks. "You don't mind Sam?"

"Sam, Sammy, Goddess, Master – honestly, whatever you want," she grinned again, liking how easily he seemed to smile back. They were making progress, slow progress, but it was there nonetheless. "And before you even try it, call me _asshole_ and you're walking to New York. Don't test me."

Bucky nodded, his own smile a little fainter than hers, but he didn't speak, instead turning to look out the window again at the passing streets. His hand propped his chin up, the other absently tapping a pattern against his legs, but he didn't seem uncomfortable – instead seemingly content with the quiet, and curious about the new area.

Interesting.

Well, interesting to _her_ in the very least. Anyone else might have seen him as someone who decided the conversation was over and was directing their attention elsewhere, but she saw him as someone who was happy to bask in the silence between them. And if their lengthy trip had taught her anything about the man, it was that he surprisingly detested the quiet. If the radio wasn't on, or he wasn't asleep, then he pushed her into talking.

Her rambling had never come in handy before. It was nice little twist. But, as nice as it was that he seemed to like the sound of her voice, it was good he was beginning to accept the silence as well. There were only so many things she could go on about before she either said something she shouldn't have – probably something along the lines of him having a pretty face – or started repeating something she'd already said.

Turning into a private parking lot, she watched his expression closely, trying to see either approval or rejection. "Here, this place looks pretty okay," she murmured absently, still studying his reactions. He showed nothing more than idle curiosity at the new surroundings. "I've been busting to use the bathroom for close to twenty minutes now, so thank god."

Bucky made a small sound of amusement – maybe amusement? Or disapproval, she couldn't tell – as he fixed his gloves and sleeves. "You should've pulled over," he scolded quietly. "Go find a restroom then. I need to see what's available anyway."

Samara locked the car behind them both and hurried forward, hoping to explain a little before she dashed away. "Just pick a meal, drink and dessert okay? Whatever you want. When I'm back, I'll have a look then we'll order together and find a nearby park or something."

At his nod, she practically ran to the bathroom, happy to see the other stalls were unoccupied as the door swung shut behind her. She hated public restrooms and usually fought battles to avoid them, but some things had to be done, and sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. Despite the inner mantra, she still turned the tap on before actually using the facilities; paranoid someone somewhere could hear her without the protective blanket stopping them.

It was weird, rushing through pulling her pants back up and washing her hands, but something told her that she shouldn't leave him alone for too long. That maybe someone would come along, or maybe he'd decide that walking to New York was actually a good idea and she was genius for thinking of it – either way he would go, and she'd be in the middle of nowhere with no clue as to why she'd come all this way in the first place. If he stayed, not only would she be entertained, but she wouldn't have to ask herself why she wasn't struggling against him dragging her across the country and –

 _Wait_.

Had she been kidnapped?

Samara frowned and looked up, glancing at her own reflection in confusion. It wasn't really kidnapping if she'd practically skipped towards her car and happily helped planned the route they'd take, was it? Whiskey eyes only blinked back at her and she sighed, resting her hands on the edge of the basin tiredly.

She really was exhausted, but at least she had the purple bruises under her eyes to match her companions. Matching back packs and matching under eyes. Nice. _But speaking of bruises..._ Shifting her hair, she studied her neck impassively, turning an uninterested eye on the light gold marks painting her skin. They were healing beautifully, but if she squinted, and tilted her head just so, she could make out the shape of fingers...

Moving back from the mirror, she shook out her hair, resettling it over her shoulders before stalking from the room. The cafe was as quiet as she'd left it before, the patron behind the counter smiling her way, and the man in dark clothing still staring down the menu.

Blue eyes flickered towards her. "Sam? What the hell is a BLAT burger and why do I feel the urge to eat one?"

The nickname made her heart stop in her chest for a second. "Bacon, lettuce, avocado and tomato and you want to eat one because they're bloody delicious," she answered easily, taking up the space at his side. Her own eyes moved to the board, roaming over their options curiosly. "I want one of the homemade pies more than I want air right now."

"Of course you do," Bucky rumbled, gloved hand lifting to point at the display case. "They have a plum crumble."

Samara nodded in agreement, seeing the mess of pastry and fruit behind the glass. "That they do," she allowed, fishing in her back pocket for her wallet as she shot him a curious look. "You really like plums don't you? Mind if I ask why?"

The assassin hung over her shoulder as she wandered towards the counter. "They have proprieties proven to help improve your memory," he announced almost silently, voice nothing but an informing whisper as she waved him closer. "To help you remember things easier and stop the decline of cognitive health as you grow older..."

Something told her to remember that, to keep the information for a rainy day, so with a smile she filed it away in her mind. "Yeah? Well, they also have a laxative effect, so don't eat too much because I will _not_ be pulling over every five minutes."

He didn't even smile.

* * *

Steve wasn't smirking, no way, no how. He knew how unattractive cockiness could be on some people, and the usual radiating smugness from some made him almost feel sick to his stomach. He hated people who rubbed their victory in the faces of others. It was rude, demeaning, and something the strong did to the weak.

So no, he wasn't smirking, but he _was_ rude and demeaning.

"I told you," he announced, shaking his head with a barely there smile. Not even the sound of retching was enough to kill his good mood. "I told you this would happen. Oh boy, didn't I tell you. Jarvis, did I tell him or did I tell him?"

The intelligence system was polite in his reply, but there was a hint of... smugness in his accent. _"You told him Captain Rogers."_

Steve didn't bother to hide his grin when a groan hit the air, the smaller body hunched by the toilet almost curling around the bowl lovingly. He couldn't see more than the back of a dark head, but he continued smiling nonetheless. "This sucks," Tony decided, spitting into the toilet. "My stomach hurts and my own creation is turning against me."

"I told you not to eat the whole cake," the blonde pointed out. "Jarvis didn't I tell him?"

" _You told him."_

Brown eyes glared his way, and the man almost snorted at the barrage of hair clips holding back dark locks. "You told me not too, so I _had_ too," Tony defended weakly, features suddenly twisting in discomfort. "Oh god, no, why..."

"Why?" Steve feigned thought. "Maybe 'cause you ate an entire chocolate cake?"

"Rogers, you suck."

Steve grinned, shrugging even when the tired glare was returned to his figure. "I may suck but at least I'm not being sick in a toilet," he sung, nose wrinkling slightly as he reached out, fingers tapping the man's forehead. "And at least I don't look as _interesting_ as you. I might not be able to grip the current fashion trends, but even I don't own bobby pins."

The comical array of clips and pins holding back the man's bangs were defended with a short snort. "You're the one who mentioned holding my hair back if I was sick. Now I'm paranoid that I'll get puke in my luscious locks. Sue me," Tony grumbled.

"You wouldn't be getting puke in your hair if you weren't sick. And you wouldn't be sick if you didn't eat the entire chocolate cake," Steve answered easily, moving to ruffle a hand through his own hair. "It's weird, it's almost like I remember telling you not to eat the cake. Almost like maybe, if you'd listened to me, we wouldn't be here right now, but I'm not sure. Jarvis, did I tell him?"

" _You told him Captain."_

Steve clicked his tongue, adopting a look of feigned amazement. "Would you look at that? I did tell you."

"Rogers, I hope you choke on chocolate cake and die."

* * *

Was he meant to be reacting? Was there a reason people travelled miles to see this, paid money to go on boat tours that got a little closer to the action? Because if there was, he really wasn't seeing it.

"So..." Bucky started, blinking over at his companion. "This is it?"

Samara sucked her lower lip into her mouth, features a mess of confusion but also muted awe. "I feel like I should be impressed, but I'm not impressed?" she tried, tilting her head one way, then the other. "But because I know I should be, and I'm not, somehow I actually am."

He cocked a brow in humour, chuckle building in his chest. "I feel like I shouldn't have been able to understand that, but I did," he countered, lifting a gloved hand to pointedly wipe away the moisture gathering on his cheeks. "You know, if I wanted a shower, I would've taken one before you insisted we come out here for _sight-seeing."_

Whiskey eyes stared him down. "Yeah, well, shut up," the woman snapped, apparently lacking a sarcastic reply. "I thought it would be more, I don't know, exciting then this? I'm not getting a real tourist vibe here, and I'm disappointed. Impressed, but disappointed."

Bucky sighed. "Well, can we go back to the room now? I actually wanted a shower."

The doctor sent him a hard glare, but the darkness behind it was ruined by the odd smattering of droplets on her skin. It was almost artistic actually, now that he was taking the risk to look a little closer. The contrast of the foaming white water around them compared to the dark shock of her hair and the strangely alien shade of her eyes –

Heat spread along his side, weight pressing against the metal of his arm. "Okay, okay, I got it," Samara breathed, eyes narrowed as she nodded. "If you squint, and like, tilt your head back like this? You get a little _Niagara_ instead of just, you know, _Falls."_

Bucky dropped her eyes, moving from memorising the shade of gold to instead studying the smaller frame pressed against his side. He hadn't really taken the time to look at her – as he was now realising, with some hint of regret – but she was _tiny._ The term _slight_ came to mind...

"You seeing it too, Buck?"

Yeah, he really was – she was like a doll, perfect and porcelain with large whiskey eyes and bowed lips.

"Dude, what the actual hell? Are you with me or are you with the fairies, come on man," the woman let out a worn groan, both hands gripping his upper arm. Now that she had a firm hold, she started rocking her weight back and forth, shaking him like an impatient child. "Pay attention to me, god. Have you never had a female friend before? Do you not understand how our relationship works?"

Bucky blinked, focusing back on her eyes and words. "It works like a relationship with a male would work?" he suggested thickly, swallowing down whatever that train of thought had been. It was natural to find people attractive. It was something normal people did, and he was a normal person now.

"Well, yeah, I mean..." Samara frowned, her brow coming together almost comically. "Gender equality, and all that, but... Yeah, now I can't do the whole _I'm female so make an exception if I want you too_ thing. But uh, right, so if I tug on you and all this," she continued, pointedly putting all of her weight on his side as an example. "It means _give me attention."_

Blue eyes flickered between whiskey and the twin hands caught in his hoody. "You're tugging on me now," he pointed out slowly, licking his lips in confusion. If she tugged, he had to give... "So you want attention?"

Samara blinked. "I always want attention," she announced. "But no, I wanna go home. You in?"

"I'm in," Bucky answered easily, using the grip she had on him to steer her away from the _wonder falls_. It had been a pit stop she'd requested, but it seemed to be pointless as all hell to him. _Definitely worth it though_. Sparing her a small look, he noted she was still holding his arm. "Are you happy?"

The doctor hummed in surprise at the question. "Happy? Me? Why?" she demanded, turning to give him a suspicious glance, eyes raking up and down his person. "Okay then _danger mouse_ , what the hell did you do? Who did you kill? Did you – oh my god did you like, toss someone over the railings? How did you even manage that? I didn't even see you do it."

"I didn't kill anyone."

"Oh," Samara deflated. "I'm actually a little disappointed in you now. Feel like that was an opportunity missed."

Bucky chuckled gently, watching her pry her fingers away from his arm when they reached the parking lot. "Maybe it was," he allowed, flexing his fingers experimentally. They didn't feel any different. "Sam? Where's the motel?"

The woman pursed her lips. "Like forty minutes away?" she estimated. "Why? Oh, darling, are you tired, do you want another nap? I don't mind. Sleepy Bucky is life. Did you know you make this little purring noise, like a kitten, when you sleep and it is so freaking adorable. Get's me every time man."

His brow came together. "I don't purr in my sleep."

He didn't right?

"Wanna bet?" Samara challenged, grinning his way. "I'll seriously pull out my phone next time if I have too. Record the whole conversation. And yes, _conversation_. It's adorable. I make a sound, you make a sound. I die a little inside every time."

Shifting in his seat, he bit his lip, studying his lap as the world flew past the window. "I don't make a sound," he muttered. "I'm a trained assassin. I make no sound, waking or sleeping."

He _felt_ her shock more than saw it – whiskey eyes wide and round and lips parted in surprise. "Trained assassin?" she echoed, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "That's new. And actually not unexpected. I saw it coming from a mile away, I'm not even kidding. I've been mentally referring to you as _deadly assassin_ for like, days now. Or hunk. Assassin or hunk."

Bucky blinked, continuing to stare down his lap. "I prefer hunk," he murmured, leaning heavily against the car door.

"Only you," Samara answered without pause. "Hey, where's the room key? And what the hell is our room number? I know I didn't actually go into the reception, thank god, but the second level of that building looked so dangerous. I mean, if you tell me we're on the second floor, I swear I'll slap you and never trust you with serious tasks again."

Letting out a careful breath – she was changing the subject, not lingering on it, either because she was uncomfortable with the term _assassin_ or she knew he was – he rummaged through his pockets. "Uh, it's a first floor single? I think. It cost less to get two single beds, so I just got that instead of two doubles."

The car jolted, the woman slamming on the breaks before cursing and straightening the vehicle. "Buck. What the hell were the words that just came out of your bloody mouth?" she demanded, wincing when a few cars honked behind them. "You got a single what?"

"Single room?" Bucky repeated. Had he done something wrong? She didn't look happy, cherry lips pushed out into a pout and her eyes looking everywhere but at him, so maybe he had. He tried to hold her gaze, tried to make eye contact, but she kept it stubbornly on the road before them. "Sam? Sammy..."

There were whiskey eyes. "Don't bring out the damn nicknames when you know you're in trouble!"

He blinked.

"And don't you dare bring out those puppy dog eyes either boy," Samara hissed without heat, slumping over slightly. "Seriously, dude, you're killing me. I hate you, like so much. The nicknames and the big blues... I mean, _goddamn_ stop, I hate you."

He leant closer, hoping to stay within her attention. "What did I do wrong?" he asked slowly, looking down to the room key curiously for a few seconds. Hiding a smile, he looked back up, widening his eyes just a fraction. "Can you please tell me what I did wrong... _Sammy?"_

"You suck."

"Sammy? Please?"

"Seriously dude, you suck in more ways than one," Samara breathed out, shaking her head. "You got us a single, right? That doesn't mean two single beds, it just means one single bed."

 _Fuck._

"One bed?"

Samara lifted a brow his way, eyes flickering in warmth. "What's wrong, Bucky?" she purred, leaning across the space to nudge him with her shoulder. "That's not regret I see in your face right now, is it? I mean, it's only _one night_. And if you ask really nicely, I'll even sleep with pants on. No promises, but I might, so manners would be a good way for you to go."

Bucky slumped back in his seat, staring down the card and refusing to let his gaze drift to the side. Where his companion, recently realised as attractive companion, was seated.

 _Fuck._

* * *

 **What is this? Advancement in the whole romance aspect of this story, holy hell...**

 **Guys, even I'm shocked as anything right now, I mean, come on. This might be the first time I've actually remembered to include romance building rather than just being like,** _ **shit, this is a romance, quickly make them kiss.**_

 **Taila xx**


	17. Mints

_Great. Two sleepless nights. This is just what I need._

Bucky wiped his brow, pushing back the wet mop of hair as he studied the room and its only – _oh thank god, dude look, it's a double –_ bed. It was rather spacious, with thick woollen blankets and multiple pillows lining the mattress, but he knew it wouldn't be big enough. No bed could be big enough. Not with the sprawling position his companion liked to take up in her sleep, not with the way her legs splayed and her arms reached out to hold empty air. So unless he was willing to sleep on the floor, he was doomed to play the part of a human teddy bear at some point during the night.

At the thought, his eyes lit up hopefully. _Oh, the floor..._

The sound of rustling forced him back to reality, and he took notice of the muttering person hovering in the corner, long hair covering shadowed features. His mind delved into panic for all of three seconds, struggling to put a name to the face. "Sammy," he realised, blinking slowly. "You okay over there?"

The woman looked up with a quick smile and a wave of her hand. "Yeah, _cautionary tale_ , I'm okay," she promised, going back to tearing through her bags with a single minded determination. In the space of a few seconds however, she'd slumped over, shoulders lowered in defeat. "Actually, no, I changed my mind. I'm not okay. Definitely not."

"What? Why?" Bucky frowned and shifted closer, clutching his towel to his body as he moved. Her smooth skin was lined with frustration as she let out a tired sigh, the sound making his gut tighten in worry. He'd once held a blade to her stomach with the intent to kill, and she hadn't even managed to look this distraught. "Come on," he coaxed gently when she didn't speak, "Did you lose something?"

A wild nod was his answer and he closed his eyes in short lived relief. "You know when you were booking this room, and I was getting dinner?" she reminded him, slumping down to the side and giving him mournful eyes. "I had to wait for the pizza of course, I mean, duh, it's not cooked in the three seconds it takes you to order it. A pizza takes time. It's a delicate art, you know? You've gotta get the dough right, spread the toppings in an even pattern so every bite is..."

Bucky waited, brows lifted high in amusement and lips in a crooked smile as realisation painted her features. He knew he didn't need to point it out, but the urge wasn't one he bothered to fight... "You're rambling," he murmured lowly. "Why so nervous, Doctor?"

"Why do I need a reason?" Samara muttered back weakly, curling into a little ball, her legs pressing up against her chin. Now deeming everything to be safe, she looked up to him, whiskey eyes molten. "I got you something."

Starting back slightly, Bucky blinked. "Why are you nervous about that? You've bought me things before," he commented slowly, sinking down until they were the same level. The position she'd taken up was almost defensive, like she was hiding from the next few minutes and it made his stomach churn nervously.

 _What is she expecting to happen..._

"Yeah, but that's things like food, clothing, shelter," the doctor listed, looking delicately shy as she peeked up at him. "Those were all things you needed at the time. I got you this cause I thought you'd like it. I mean, it's only a shirt, so it's not like, super special or anything. I just... Yeah, I just thought you'd like it. Is this what my rambling is? I'm aware of it now and it's making me paranoid."

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head as he leant back, resting his weight on his heels. "Yeah, that's a minor form of your rambles. They can get pretty bad," he grinned, reaching out to poke her shoulder. At the touch, she curled up even tighter, lips hiding behind her bare knees. "So you got me a shirt and you can't find it? That's what's got you so upset?"

At her nod, he reached down for his own bag, fishing through it for something to wear to bed. Would it be rude to forgo a shirt like he usually did? Or would she let him get away with it...

With a quick look at the clothing she'd donned for sleep, he grabbed his usual cotton pants. "Maybe it's in the car?" he offered in the silence, straightening back up and smiling her way. "You drove us straight to the falls after picking me up remember? And made us eat dinner in the car, which was incredibly uncomfortable might I just add."

Samara poked out her tongue, unwinding from the mess of limbs and stretching out. "I had to drive there immediately to stop you from escaping," she defended, pushing to her feet and awkwardly stumbling as she regained her balance. After a few seconds she righted herself, lips caught between her teeth in embarrassment. "That was scary. I thought I fell over, but I didn't."

The soldier let out a snort, grabbing her keys from the dresser and throwing them her way without another look. "Check the car," he commanded, trying for a smile when she sighed wearily. "Give me a few precious minutes away from you."

"Why would you want to be away from me?"

"Sammy, I swear to god."

Shooting him an easy grin, she scampered to the door, looking out at the parking lot before darting outside with a quiet curse. Not that he could blame her – she had bare legs clad only in patterned shorts, and the temperature outside was less than chilly. Making sure the door had clicked shut behind her, he dropped the towel and hurried to lift both boxers and sweats over his hips before she smashed back into the room, wild like the hurricane that she was.

He was tugging on the strings, loosening the waistband when the door was swung open. "Find it?" he asked, brow furrowing as he played with the messy material and apparently impossible tie.

Hands slapped his own away, and his breath caught as nimble fingers made quick work of the tight knot he'd created. "Yeah, you were right," Samara allowed with a smile, pulling back once her work was done. "It was still in the backseat thankfully."

Bucky swallowed, slowly retying the bow he knew could be easily pulled apart. "So? Can I have it now or do I have to wait until my birthday?"

The doctor rolled her eyes, sending him an unimpressed look. "Funny guy," she breathed, poking his cheek before spinning sharply on her heel. It was with a wave of her hand that she revealed the plastic bag on the bed, and with a small bow that she mocked him further. "There, mister comedy genius, have at it. I need to brush my teeth."

He heard her hurry away as he wandered to the bed, hiding away from his reaction under the guise she needed to finish up her nightly routine. Bucky resisted the urge to smile as the door was shut all but an inch, a shadow blocking out the light. She'd brushed her teeth already, about five minutes before he'd showered, but he didn't call her out on the lie, instead he curiously peeked in the bag and poked around its contents.

From what he could see the shirt was a dark red in colour, and there was lot of it – so either oversized or maybe long sleeved? – with the only details being a few buttons lacing what must have been the neckline. Lip pursed, he moved to pull it out, holding it up in front of him with approving eyes. The material was soft under his fingers, and stretched pleasantly when he tugged on it; eliminating the risk of it being awkwardly snug or tight in some places like the other clothing he'd purchased could often be.

He liked it.

With a pleased smile he shrugged it on, settling it over his torso and rolling his shoulders out to test the materials limits. "Where did you say you got this from?" he called, lifting his wet hair out of the collar.

Samara appeared rather suddenly, cowering around the door and once again hiding like she was expecting trouble. "It was this little indie like shop beside the pizza place. You know, the type with the dream catchers and wooden ornaments?" she explained, biting her lip before pushing around the bathroom door. "It uh, it looks really good. I'm told its pure cotton, so pretty warm too, I bet?"

With an approving smile, he looked up to her and nodded. "Thank you," he murmured genuinely, running his hands down the material on his stomach. "I really do like it."

Her cheeks flushed a rich shade of red. "Good. That's why I bought it. I mean, I wanted you to like it," she waved a hand, the action quick before she clutched them both in front of her stomach awkwardly. "That's why you buy people gifts. Too make them smile, and you're smiling so that's all nice and well. I'm gonna stop myself before I start a nice rant on the complete history of gift purchasing, and just shut up."

Bucky shook his head. "Don't become too paranoid about how you speak," he warned idly, tugging the shirt back over his head. He'd wear it tomorrow, to keep away the chill and keep a smile on his companion's features. "Your rambles are who you are. Irritatingly adorable and amusing as all hell."

"Did you just call me adorable?" Samara questioned suspiciously, crossing her arms against her chest. "You need to start warning me when you bring out the compliments. I need adequate time to mentally prepare."

Humming back, he watched her from the corner of his eye, studying how she held her shoulders in a challenging stance but still somehow managed to look nervously small. Maybe it was her eyes? Wide and the same colour as rich whiskey as they darted around – landing on his features, before bouncing to his chest then to the bed standing proud behind him.

Bucky looked over at her, narrowing his eyes for a few short seconds. "Keep your eyes on me," he instructed vaguely, gesturing to his own blue orbs. "You're holding yourself right, good posture, but you're averting your eyes too much. It's showing how nervous you are. If you want someone to believe you're calm, try not to let your gaze fidget."

Samara blinked, lips falling open to form a small circle of surprise. "T-thank you?" she whispered, relaxing into a more casual position as she sweeped her hair onto one shoulder. "So, don't ramble and focus on one point?"

He nodded. "Yes, try and keep your words short and to a point. Don't add in comments that aren't needed. Never give your opinion. Say what needs to be said, and hold eye contact." Heading over to the door, he locked it firmly, checking the handle by tugging on it awkwardly. When it didn't give way, he moved to turn on the small lamp beside the bed. "It might save your life one day."

As if they'd been doing it for years, the woman moved to turn the main light off before heading around to the other side of the bed. "Thanks then," she murmured softly, untucking the covers with practised ease. "Hey, can you give me assassin lessons? Teach me how to assassin?"

Hesitating for a split second, he followed her actions and slipped under the blankets. "Okay, sure, why not. First lesson – go to sleep," he commanded, reaching out to flick the lamp switch and plummet the room into darkness. "Will we get into New York tomorrow?"

A small hum was his reply, the woman shifting about until she was comfortable. The solider was honestly expecting some part of his body to be grabbed or touched, but she kept to her side, once again curling up into a tight ball and hiding away from the world. A few minutes after the approving hum, he heard her breathing even out into a pattern, signalling sleep.

It wasn't until he'd turned to face her, studying her features, that he realised he'd been hoping she'd reach out for him.

* * *

When her eyes blinked open, she didn't even have the strength to be surprised that she was awake, her body already rolling over in place to face her bed partner. The man had his features pressed into the material of his pillow, both arms up and wrapped about it, stretching out the muscles along his side and down his back in an artless tease.

Samara sighed, wiping a hand across her eyes. "Right. Surroundings, temperature, infection," she listed, blinking back exhaustion as she straightened up and pushed back the covers. Looking across the room however, she bit her lower lip, feeling the chill settle along her revealed skin. "Maybe not surroundings? Frost bite is hard to treat without the proper equipment."

A murmur from beside her was a belated reply, and she quirked a tired grin.

"Sleep talking?" she questioned, reaching up to brush back dark locks. The man stirred slightly at the touch but didn't bother with much else, happily settling back into his lazy sprawl as she measured how hot he was. "Still warmer than you ought to be, but that's normal for you right?"

Another small sound echoed from parted lips, and she tried to smile back, but she realised a problem rather quickly that killed any humour. The soldier was contently lying on his stomach, which meant his left shoulder was on the other side of the and away from her probing fingers. _Fuck._ Samara grunted in annoyance, biting her lip nervously again as she shifted closer to his sleeping form.

She braced her hand by his head, and her knees by his hips, leaning over him and gently pressing against the skin connecting silver and bronze. _Warm, but not heated, so still clear of the infection._ Sighing, she pulled back, wincing when her weight shifted the mattress about awkwardly.

Nothing.

Breathing out a relieved sigh, she moved to lie back down, stretching out along the bed. "Let me guess, natural alarm clock, you'll be waking me up in about an hour?" she whispered, rolling her eyes at the inside joke. Nobody laughed, but it was the effort that counted. Sighing, she flattened the pillow beneath her head, hearing the man beside her let out a sleepy purr before a warm arm slithered over her waist.

Samara felt her heart stop, body tensing up under the gentle touch as her eyes flickered his way. "Bucky..." she warned quietly.

As per usual, she got a small sound in response before a body was pressing against her side, nose tucked into the junction between her neck and shoulders. He was not only a sleep talker, but a sleep cuddlier? This was complete and utter bullsh –

Sucking in a quick breath, she tried not to squeak when legs tangled with her own, their owner finally settling down with a quiet sigh and tired mutter. "Are you done?" she taunted weakly, awkwardly unsure as to what she should be doing with her hands. After a few seconds one fluttered down to rest on his arm, the other grabbing her pillow and pushing it more comfortably under her head.

It was a hell of a lot easier to check his temperature and arm when said arm was less than a foot away, and his forehead mere inches from her neck. She was really just saving herself a lot of trouble...

* * *

"I just don't get what's so special about it is all," Samara argued, her eyes flicking his way before hurrying back to the road. "It's just a city? There are dozens like it all over the world, you know, with the same freakishly tall buildings and the odd park installed to make people think they're that one step closer to nature," she snorted, humour playing with the corners of her red lips.

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat and tore his eyes away. "It's the name, the history," he explained, leaning back in his seat. "The stories behind the _freakishly_ _tall buildings_ and the _odd park._ "

Samara hummed back, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel to a beat he couldn't hear as they waited at a red light. "So, we doing the usual then? Find a nice motel somewhere, buy some unhealthy food and then what? Move onto the next city?"

Bucky shook his head. "We're staying a few days," he revealed, straightening up and beginning to dig through the glove box. "So maybe find a nicer room this time? Something that has a kitchen and doesn't smell like shame."

Her laughter almost managed to lift his mood, but he found his mind travelling down the dark roads from before again, leaping from the thought of her smile to the plans building behind his eyes. There were multiple safe houses in the city, hidden beside lofty apartments or small town bakeries, and with the fall of their age old mask – any remaining HYDRA agents would've taken cover there. It was _procedure_ after all.

So he had three to find, and three to clean out of not only information, but also equipment and cowering agents.

Bucky frowned slightly, turning to watch the woman beside him bob her head to the radio and watch the road carefully. He'd need a few days to find them in the first place, to dig through his memories and use the odd clue or stolen information to get the exact addresses; otherwise it could take clean over a week just to locate them. And once they were found, he then had too...

It had to be at night, it would easiest then, and his companion would be asleep. He wasn't against her knowing he had _things_ to be doing, but it would be best if she didn't ask too many questions.

"Find a hotel this time," he suddenly announced, tugging out his gloves and slipping them over his fingers. If he gave himself four days to find them – too long but he needed the breathing room – and then three nights to clean them out...

Samara pursed her lips, curious but not willing to push. "Oh? Why?"

The soldier flexed his fingers, settling the red material of his new shirt over the leather. "We'll be here around a week," he answered carefully, not willing to give away too much. He trusted her, but this was a matter of _the less she knew the better_. "I need to do a few things. It's going to take a while. I don't mind if you wander, but try not to – "

"Draw attention?" Samara finished for him, even managing to give him a warm smile before the road demanded her attention.

Bucky chuckled and ran a hand through his hair, shaking out the dark locks before nodding. "That's my girl," he praised, licking his lips as he took in the taller buildings surrounding them. "Are we close to the inner city? Try find a hotel somewhere around here if you can, I don't care about anything else, but it has to be in the _centre_..."

The whiskey eyes blinked. "That'll be more expensive," she mused idly, but she didn't really seem bothered by the news, a smile firmly holding her lips. "So my choice then, as long as I pick some place near the centre? Even if I pick some high end place, with fluffy bath towels and mints on the pillows, you won't argue?"

"I won't argue if you give me the mints."

Samara giggled, wrinkling her nose his way before making a sudden turn onto another street. "Alrighty then, mints on the pillows," she announced, going back to her rhythmic tapping and head bobbing. "I can do that, no sweat. It'll be nice to have a long bath, you know?"

His brow came together, but he nodded. "I suppose," he allowed, shrugging once. "I've never really been one for the long baths with candles and classical music playing softly in the background. It all seems a little pointless to me. A waste of time I could be spending doing something more productive."

"I will convert you," Samara decided bluntly. "By the end of the week, you'll be happily sitting in a bath tub full of hot water with a champagne glass in one hand and curlers in your hair," she promised, clicking her tongue as the car slowly rolled to a stop. Instead of looking at him, she was glancing up at the tall building outside, a fond smile on her lips. "This is a welcome sight..."

Bucky frowned and followed her awestruck gaze. "It's familiar?"

Warm eyes turned to stare him down, a nod shifting the dark brown hair resting on slim shoulders. "Very," she breathed, nibbling on her lower lip before throwing the car into park. "Grab our things, would you? I'll get us a room."

"Will you be able to?" the soldier asked, already pushing open his door and emerging onto the street. The hotel looked high end alright, and it was very rarely one was just able to walk in and get a room without a previous engagement or booking. "Your smile can work wonders, I'll give you that, but this will need a miracle."

Samara hummed, shaking her head. "They know me well enough to make an exception," she shrugged. "This is the same place I stay at when medical conventions are in town, or when I'm making a visit to the hospitals and private practises in the area. But even if I wasn't already on their roll, they'd probably give me a room anyway. I'm a highly regarded surgeon remember."

She winked his way, and he rolled his eyes, sensing the smug air hovering about her like a halo. "I remember," he sighed, waiting as she popped open the boot before grabbing their bags. The woman had invested in something similar to a gym bag, saying her backpack didn't have enough room for a female to live on and he hefted it up, silver arm not struggling with the weight. "As long as they don't ask too many questions, then I don't care. But I wouldn't mind something to eat?"

"Room service," was the simply reply, the woman locking up the car before leading him into the richly decorated lobby. In plain black slacks and the red cotton shirt he'd been gifted, he stood out from the well dressed men waiting on them, earning a few side eyed glances. He would've felt uncomfortable, but the doctor was dressed in worse and walked with her head held high, so he followed her example and lifted his chin.

The man behind the counter didn't show much emotion at their appearance. "Good day, can I help you?"

Samara gave a breathtaking smile. "Yes, I'm hoping," she allowed politely, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her wallet. "I'm looking for a room to book for the next week. Sorry for the short notice, but the trip was unexpected. My name is Doctor Samara Masons – I should already be on your records. This is my partner; he'll be staying with me."

He knew better than to react outwardly to the title, but some things he couldn't stop, like the quickening pace of the organ in his chest and possessive pride lighting his eyes when the smaller man looked his way.

"And his name is..."

"James," Bucky introduced, choosing to stick with the name printed on his false identifications. It had been the first one to come to mind when the men who'd falsified them had asked, something familiar enough that he wouldn't forget to respond. The last name however, had been solely due to his sentimental side gaining control. "James Grant."

Samara's eyes flickered his way for a split second.

The man behind the desk shot them both a polite smile, hands moving to type on the keyboard hidden from view. "Okay, Miss Masons, I'll just bring up your file and..." His carefully constructed expression broke out in surprise before shifting into a warmer look. "Okay, I've got you here then, it's nice to have you back with us. The room you stayed in last time is available if you'd like, and the length of the stay was a week, was it?"

"A week yes," the doctor nodded briskly. "And that room had a stunning view, I'd been happy to have it."

"Brilliant," the man gushed, slamming a finger down on a button before shifting to another machine. This one spat out a sheet of paper, which was quickly scooped up and placed before them. "If I could just get your signature..."

Samara happily took the pen he passed her way, scribbling her name onto the paper before pushing it back. "My car is also out the front, could you get it parked in the lot for me as we get settled?" she requested, adopting a professional air about her that almost made the soldier raise a brow. It was impressive, the lack of teasing smiles and sarcastic comments leaving her lips, but he didn't comment on it, instead focusing on absorbing their new surroundings. "And the menu is already in the room correct?"

Bucky tuned them both out, blue eyes flickering over the lobby with hidden curiosity. There were a few men hovering about the doors, all wearing a shirt the same shade of royal blue, so all no doubt workers in the hotel. They didn't give him anything more than a quick glance, but one came forward, moving to take the keys from his companion before nodding politely at them both and stalking back out the doors.

He blinked in disinterest, dismissing the younger male as a threat and now taking in the visible windows and doors. He'd be coming and going at strange hours, and while it would be easy to fabricate some lie as to why, it would be even easier if he didn't have too.

"James?"

He turned back to whiskey eyes, lifting a brow in question.

"Do you want any help with those?" Samara inquired, poking at the bags at their feet. "Or have you got it?"

He looked down to the bags as well before lifting his gaze, sending the man behind the desk a bland glare. "I've got it, darling," he drawled, hiking the luggage up as he stepped back politely. "Lead the way."

Offering the man another round of thanks, the woman moved towards the elevators, checking the doors were shut before playfully slapping his arm. "Grant? Seriously? You are such a dick," she snorted, rolling her eyes skywards. "I didn't even notice the connection at first, but now I get it you sappy shit."

Bucky gave a feigned look of confusion. "What connection?"

"Steven Grant Rogers..."

"Oh, that connection."

Samara snorted again, but this time it was in humour rather than laced with mocking. "Yes, _that_ connection," she taunted, chuckling warmly as the elevator let out an obnoxious chime. "Come on, our rooms this way. I hope the ninth floor isn't too high? You didn't say anything about wanting to be closer to the ground or closer to the top so when he offered my usual room..."

Bucky shrugged when she did, smiling as well to show he didn't mind. "It's fine," he allowed, looking up and down the slick hallway as the woman worked to unlock their door. "They won't ask too many questions if we come and go?"

"I said we're on a vacation, so probably not," Samara deduced, finally managing to open the door. "Travellers keep weird hours anyhow."'

Following close behind her, he didn't have to bother with hiding his gape at the luxury they entered, knowing she couldn't see the shock as she moved to remove her shoes and shrug away her overcoat. The small apartment was decorated with creams and whites, a colour he usually would've found repulsive, but there were shocks of brighter shades threaded throughout the area, dulling the too-bright shades with striking reds or royal purples.

Taking in the sitting area and kitchenette, he licked his lips. "Where are the bedrooms?" he asked, gently dropping both their bags. It took him a few seconds, as distracted as he was, to notice his companion had tensed. "Sam?"

The doctor closed her eyes. "Fuck."

Bucky frowned. "Fuck?"

"Fuck," she confirmed, nodding once before gripping her hands uncomfortably. "I don't usually have the need for more than one bed, Buck, so uh, my usual room is a single..." Samara winced, looking his way in apology. "I didn't even think about that. I'm sorry; I'll just sleep on the couch or something, if you want?"

Unable to help it, the assassin let out a small rumbling chuckle. "So you got us one bed? Just like I did back in Buffalo?" he mused absently, turning a small grin on her. "How about we forget that Buffalo happened, and that this happened, and just call it even? Which means no more of those snide little comments you made all the way here, okay?"

Samara blinked but nodded happily in agreement, reaching to grab her bag before jerking her head towards the other side of the room. "Come on then, beds this way," she instructed, almost having to drag the luggage behind her as she stumbled over the plush carpet. "The damn things big enough for five people anyway..."

Whistling as he took in _the_ _damn thing_ , Bucky had to agree with the statement. Maybe there _was_ a bed big enough for him to sleep comfortably beside the woman. "Nothing we can do about it anyway," he pointed out. "You said I was your partner, so if we asked for two beds it would've come across as strange, don't you think?"

"True, I didn't think about that at all and – _Oh look! There are mints on the pillows!"_

* * *

 **Here it is! I'm already working on the next chapter and damn, do you guys know how hard it is to write fight scenes? I mean really, damn, Bucky is such a little shit and I'm trying to do his fighting style justice, but...**

 **Well,** _ **damn**_

 **Taila xx**


	18. Enemy Action

Leather groaned as the soldier shifted about on the couch, his brow furrowed together in pointed concentration and fingers wrapped around a plain pen. The tip hovered close to the surface of the journal, as though about to write, but the two didn't meet. Instead it remained unmoving, the man commanding it content to watch the ink of his previous words dry.

This was something that could help him. He _knew_ it could help him. So why couldn't he just doit?

Silence was heavy in the air for a few seconds before a sigh exploded, disrupting the calm. "I feel like an idiot," Bucky announced dryly, throwing both book and pen to the small table in muted disgust. "I _am_ an idiot."

The initial notion of it had been innocent enough, something that he'd warmed up to within a few seconds of thinking on it. It was logical after all, right? Because if someone was scared of forgetting something, or wanted to be reminded of it at a later date, what did they do? Easy. Write it down – scribble it onto a note and stick it to the fridge.

Only thing was Bucky didn't have a fridge, and he was also pretty sure his arm wasn't magnetic enough to play the part either so…

Backup plan it was.

The leather bound journal had been a gift from his doctor, another one where she'd hesitated before finally giving it to him with a mumbled explanation. He'd been thinking on how he was going to keep track of the fleeting memories when the book had been passed his way, and it was like puzzle pieces falling into place behind his eyes. Almost like she knew what he needed long before he did.

Now all he had to do was actually go through with it all. Use the gift as something of a history book; write down everything he remembered as he remembered it, or maybe things he wanted to know about who – about who he was. And if he had the thoughts from the other him, the _real_ him, maybe he'd be that much closer to being that man again? The man he was meant to be. The man everyone thought he was.

It was all he had to do. He just had to put pen to paper and memories to words.

Bucky pushed to his feet, pacing the length of their room in a feeble attempt to calm his racing mind. The leather book stared back at him from where it was haphazardly resting on the table, black ink already staining the first page, silently mocking him with its state of unfinished. He hadn't even been able to write his own damn _name_ for fucks sake.

"James Buchanan Barnes," he recited dutifully, slowing to a sluggish strut as he crossed the room, squeezing his eyes shut. He knew the name, knew the way it would fall from his lips. "But I like to go by Bucky. Only my mother calls me James."

 _And my doctor…_

Biting his lower lip, the shock of his pain grounding him, he moved to gently close the book, sitting the pen on top of it with exaggerated care. He'd write more later, when things settled down some, when he had more than his own name to actually put into words. But for now, he tucked both pen and paper into his backpack, letting go of the sentimentality and drawing out the cheaper notebook he'd hidden there instead.

Staring down at the coloured plastic cover, he grimaced shortly, noting the light shake in his flesh and bone fingers. He should actually sleep, now that he thought about it, he'd need the strength come tomorrow night.

Flicking open the pages, he thumbed through until he hit the last one, blue eyes hardening as they took in three separate addresses. It hadn't taken long for the soldier in his mind to give him the information he'd needed, his estimated four days being narrowed down to a mere two – both nights spent tirelessly pouring over faint memories and ancient orders, while the days were passed by with energetic company and bright smiles.

It should've exhausted him more than it did, staying up both day and night, but he'd managed somehow. Maybe it was because the mornings greeted him with the smell of home cooking, but then again, maybe it was the constant movement of the person who remained at his side. Or maybe it was the subtle reminder his companion played in his mind.

The reminder that her smile wouldn't last long, not if the remnants of his old life found her.

At the last thought, his eyes drifted towards the bedroom door, mind managing to stay on topic even as his body betrayed him by stiffening. Tomorrow night he'd go to the safe house furthest from their hotel room and start the clean up – take out any still breathing agents before destroying both information and equipment they left behind. Then the night after, he'd moved onto the second. And then, their last night in the city would be spent destroying the third.

And after that? After that, he packed up his belongings – doctor included – and moved onto the next township hiding the bastards. He hunted them down, took them out, and then shifted again. Rinse and repeat until they were _all_ gone.

But there was a little problem about his current plan he had yet to address, one little thing stopping the clean up portion…

He sighed when it seemed his little problem heard him, the bedroom door creaking open across the room. "Buck? That you again?"

Bucky managed a small smile at the sleepy tone, hands dropping the notebook back into his bag before amber eyes noticed it. "You know, your sleeping habits are worse than mine," he murmured quietly, zipping up his backpack and shifting closer to the woman. Smugly, he noticed she didn't shift away from his advance, trusting and open even in her sleep. "At least once I fall asleep I don't wake up again until I'm rested."

Samara hummed in response, a yawn splitting her lips in two. "I blame you," she whispered back, her smile clumsy and almost drunken. A single finger prodded his chest accusingly when he got within reach, the once cleanly painted nail chipped at the edges. "Solely _your_ fault."

"How?" Bucky demanded, careful to keep his voice low as he steered her back into the bedroom. "I'm quiet, I don't bother you, and I stay away from the bedroom. How could I wake you up so many times?" he questioned, genuinely wanting an answer.

He'd learnt in the past two nights to expect these – well these _checks,_ he supposed they were. It was almost hourly, the door creaking open and a dark head poking out with his name on rose tinted lips. At first he'd thought it was a little strange, quite like the woman herself, but then he'd gotten used to it, and his exasperation had turned almost fond.

 _Almost._

His grip on her shoulders stuttered when she lifted her arms, rubbing her eyes with closed fists. " _You_ don't wake me up," she promised, obediently slipping back under silken sheets when he pushed her onto the bed. "It's like this alarm clock? In my brain. A brain clock."

Shedding his shirt, Bucky frowned at the admittance. "An alarm clock," he echoed softly, struggling to read her features in the low light. He caught the warm look she was sending him as he climbed under the covers, his cheeks flushing slightly before he cleared his throat. They were getting separate beds next time, no excuses – there was only so much a man could take. "What's its waking you up for?"

"Surroundings, temperature, infection."

Her sleepy giggle bought a smile unbidden to his face, but once he registered her words, it died. What in the nine levels of hell did _that_ mean? Seeing whiskey eyes close, he hurried to grab her attention again, purposefully shifting his pillow closer as he let out a quiet sound. "I've never heard of that one, Sammy, sorry…"

The woman stared at him for a few silent seconds, the time stretching until discomfort nagged at his mind, before she reached out and petted his stubbled cheek. "That's okay…" she slurred tiredly.

"Sam?" Bucky pushed, not as bothered by the physical contact as he once would've been. It had been a week with her now, and she often spoke with touch more than she did with words – it was either get used to it or get used to feeling uncomfortable. And besides, unlike the pain laced touch of his handlers and the men beneath them, her touch was soft, gentle, like she was scared he'd break.

It was nice.

"Um, right, so you gotta uh, check outside, make sure those people who scared you didn't find us," Samara yawned again, blinking rapidly as she tried to concentrate. "Then you gotta check your temperature, you know, on your head," she continued, demonstrating by pressing her palm to his forehead, mimicking the same action she'd done their first night away from home. "And then, finally, you check your arm in case the infection tries to come back, the little shit." Her hand floated down to his arm now, the tips of her fingers carefully probing the connection before she hummed and took her hand back. "There we are. All done."

Bucky blinked over at her, unsure how to take both the hourly ritual she'd adopted and the touch to his arm. Some part of him felt like laughing, felt like mocking her needless care and the thought the _he_ could possibly need _her._ And then another part, one that was steadily growing louder the longer he spent in her company, was expressing the desire to hold her tightly. To thank her for even caring in the first place…

He could feel her watching him, amber eyes clouded by dreams, and slowly raised his own blue orbs to stare right back. Her smile was still drunken and clumsily adorable, but it was warm and familiar, reminding him that she was practically asleep and holding on by a bare thread of consciousness.

With that thought in mind, he reached out, wounding the metal arm she'd openly touched around her waist. "Thank you."

"For what?" Samara grunted back, but despite the words he felt her arm lift to slump over the bare curve of his hip, breath brushing against his bangs. "I'm more maternal than a mother hen dude, you had better get used to it. But I guess you're welcome."

Knowing he couldn't touch for too long, he started to pull back but a delicate hand fisted in the material over his sleeping pants. "Hey," he argued, glancing down at the material bunching over his thigh. "Sammy, could you…" he looked up again, catching fluttering lashes as the woman gave into sleep completely.

 _Figures._

Letting out a weary sigh – this was what he got for hugging her – he shifted slightly, experimenting with how far he could move before she protested. Annoyingly enough however, she seemed to simply wiggle along with him, humming as she resettled with her hand still gripping the cotton of his pants in a loose grip. Bucky glared, almost pissed she couldn't see the action through closed lids. If she _could_ , she would've let go like the material had burnt her and his problem would be solved.

Keeping his eyes on her features, he gently grabbed a fragile wrist and tugged, noting her lips twisted but her fingers came away. The soldier studied her for a few seconds longer, something heated burning in his chest. "Good night Sam."

* * *

 _Careful breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, he told himself, leveling his eye with the scope. It was cold outside, the chilly air burning his lungs every time he filled them, but he continued his pattern undeterred by the elements._

 _In through the nose. Out through the mouth._

 _It was a shock of blue that ended up catching his eye, the striking color standing out against the snow and steel monsters stalking the environment. The sight made him snort. He'd need to inform the idiot of how much he stood out, maybe recommend a darker navy to compensate for the showy shade he had going now._

 _Bucky quirked a grin when an enemy seemed to pop up like a whack-a-mole, armored head bobbing as he ran. "Back to work," he breathed out, licking his lips as he took aim and –_

 _The man hit the ground with a muted thud._

 _Despite the distance, he saw a blond head turn curiously, catching the aftermath of his bullet. Steve shot him an easy and grateful smile, one hand lifting in a salute while the other tightened around the shield._

" _I got your back, you little punk," he promised, hefting up his gun and shifting further down the snowy hillocks. They'd need him soon, to help infiltrate the compound and wipe out any enemy, but for now he and his rifle were needed higher up. "Hmm, this spots got a nice view…"_

 _Settling into the snow again, he corrected both his posture and aim, checking his comrades back to make sure no one snuck up on them in his absence. There was a smattering of fallen bodies surrounding them, and the Captain was busy hiking up his shield again, gesturing to the others before nodding and continuing onwards. So someone had snuck up on them, but lost the battle it seemed. Bucky smiled slightly at that, taking in the carnage with glowing approval._

 _It was good to see Steve didn't hold back when things had to be done. There wasn't space for compassion in a war._

 _The group slowed to a stop by the main gate and Bucky nodded, hiking up his weapon once again. He knew when he had to move out, and was long gone before his blond friend was seeking him out with frighteningly clear blue eyes._

" _You gotta keep an eye on your six there Stevie," he taunted, shouldering his rifle as he rejoined the team. The man startled slightly at the sound of his voice and his smirk widened. "Honestly kid, I can't always be here to watch your back, you know?"_

 _Steve turned a grimly bright smile on him, sensing the humor but not thinking it appropriate. "You better always be here," he threatened weakly, eyes flashing with fear at the thought. He seemed to forget they were in the middle of a battlefield, his eyes frosting over. "Don't make me resort to pulling rank on you, Sergeant."_

 _Bucky rolled his eyes, clapping a broad shoulder. "Don't get misty eyed on me, Rogers," he warned quietly, giving the other men a sideways glance. "Besides – I'm with you til the end of the line, remember?"_

 _Steve sighed, signaling for the team to get ready. "I remember. Better keep true to your word."_

" _Have I ever gone back on it?"_

 _Blue eyes clashed with his own, the honest shade a startling difference to his darker crystalline like color. Steve took in a calming breath. "There's a first time for everything, Barnes. Come on, fall in, we've gotta get this compound out of action before sunrise."_

 _Bucky frowned slightly, but nodded and pulled out his pistol, weighing it in his hands. "I bet…" he started lowly, "I can get a grenade through one of those barred windows there."_

 _Captain America looked to the guard tower he was gesturing at, eyes lighting up in challenge. "Doubt it," he jeered, offering up a cocky smirk._

 _The sniper grinned back, pulling a grenade from his belt and arming it with a flick of his wrist. "Just another day in paradise," he crooned, using a careful eye to aim for his target. The explosive ball bounced through the thick bars covering the window, and the man cheered at the victory, pumping his fist. "Oh ho boys," Bucky chimed, winking at the super soldier as an explosion sounded. "You're standing in the presence of a legend. And I'm not talking about the guy in the tights."_

" _Jerk," Steve grumbled playfully, tightening his grip on the shield when an alarm blared in their ears._

 _Bucky beamed back, shouting to be heard. "Punk."_

* * *

The soldier hovered on the corner of the street, eyes flickering over the small bodies of people huddled in doorways, cigarettes lighting their features with every drag. The longer he stood there, the more often their eyes found his person again, but he was left to his own devices; no one willing to come too close.

They'd been willing too before of course…

It had been a woman, one with long legs and a lilting voice, who had slithered up beside him with whispered promises in his ear. He'd barely let her get through even a few words of her well-practiced spiel before he showed his disinterest in the best way he knew how. A short scowl, dark glare and pointed flex of his revealed left arm had her scampering back across the street, a warning to the others echoing from painted lips. Ever since then, all he got were the curious or wanting looks before the person continued onwards and let him be again.

He was pleased enough with the development, not exactly wanting to spend his time with one arm holding back willing bodies. But at the same time, he found he was slightly irritated with it as well, what with the desire to _hurt_ something growing steadily in his chest like a flame being coaxed into a fire.

Bucky took a calming breath in, finally peeling his body away from the shadows and towards the building he'd been studying. He'd been waiting for some sign he'd been recognized, perhaps guns waving or barked out orders, but nothing had happened. Whoever was within the safe house either hadn't seen him, or hadn't wanted to draw attention by making a scene.

Either way, he was the one who needed to make the first move.

Checking over his shoulder, he didn't bother with stealth as he openly knocked on the door, pushing his weight back onto his heels. _You only have a blade. You need something bigger, something better. Let them take you in, gauge how many men are hiding here, and then we'll go from there. Too many and you'll need to separate them. If there's only a few, don't hesitate. The throat will be the most vulnerable and susceptible to our knife._

He was lightly tracing the blade tucked in his waist band when the door shuddered with movement. " _Shit_ ," was hissed out, muted by the thick steel between the voice and his ears. _"Ah crap."_

Bucky pointedly stayed silent.

" – _it's fucking him! I'm telling you. Well, fucking look then!"_

He couldn't tell where they were looking from. There were no visible markings or holes in the door, no cliché metal slider at eye height he could glare through, so he settled for just staring at the ground. Samara had been shopping again, and the dark boots covering his feet were her latest gift, offered several hours' prior with a smile. He liked them. They were a perfect fit, thick and steel tipped, _useful_ in ways she wouldn't believe.

As he heard strangled arguing through the door, he made the mental note to thank her later.

A weighted creak informed him that whoever was hiding had finally gathered the courage to open the door, and a red headed man cautiously looked out. "Soldier," he nodded, voice revealing he was the cursing man from before. Hesitantly, he opened the door a little wider, just enough that if he wanted – the assassin could get through. "Are you here for shelter?"

Bucky slowly cocked his head, blinking lazily. He knew better than to talk, so he kept his lips pressed together, head lowering in a short nod.

The man breathed out a sigh. "Last I heard, Rogers had taken you out," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he stood to the side. "But you just keep coming back, don't you?"

The solder – _not Bucky, not now_ – brushed past him, one hand still sitting idly on his only weapon. The door shut behind him with a fortifying thud as he grunted back to the agent, eyeing him up in the semi-darkness. There were bruised circles under his eyes, and a distinct lack of protruding bulges on his person, so not only was he exhausted but he was unarmed.

 _Perfect._

"We've tried to get into contact with the other safe houses in the city, and any others we can frankly, but our communications are fried," the red head continued, shaking his head as he led the way. There was a stockier man behind them both, looking at the soldier the same way he looked to him. Both studying, both calculating. "Of all the safe houses to go to, figures I pick the _fix it_ one."

The Winter Soldier made a sound back to him, maybe one that was laced with sympathy, maybe not. He didn't care much for what the agent was saying, more interested in his surroundings and the man lurching forward behind him like a faithful dog. He was big, with clearly defined muscles and firm set to his jaw, and he could prove to be difficult to take down.

 _Good thing we love a challenge._

"There's not much of us here, a dozen at most. We're thinking about moving to the nearest location, and the men are saying we should go to the one designed to watch Stark tower? They thing that it'll have the best equipment and rations. Speaking of equipment, I think we have some of yours here. A black get up, complete with mask and goggles."

 _Only a dozen? This is going to be simple. Don't attack yet, keep following him. The safe houses are designed with two exits, a common room, mess hall, command center and then dorms. Find where the largest population is residing. Take them out then block the back exit – bust the lock. Move onto the either the common room or mess hall, depending on where we start._

The tired man shot him a wan smile. "Good to know we've still got some hope left though. We're being cleared out right now, got guys tracking us down from every angle. Haven't seen hide nor hair of Rogers though. Just the redhead."

 _Destroy all equipment in the command center. Take any necessary items. Find a gun. Be careful of size and design, we need to be able to smuggle it in and out of cities, potential new countries, and hotel rooms. When all agents are dead, and equipment is wiped, smoke out the place. Set strategic fires. The smoke will damage anything remaining, and the fire will break down the bodies._

"Most of the men are sleeping, but I'll wake them up. With you here, moving to another location might be something we need to do immediately. We need to be able to communicate that you're alive. You're an asset to the rebuilding we'll need to do."

 _Burns will make the identification stages harder. Drag out the government figuring out these men were HYDRA and this was a safe house. Give us time to kill the rest of them before they move in._

The soldier looked up and smiled.

Like a hound scenting prey, the man behind him could smell his betrayal in the air, his arms moving to wrap around the soldier's upper body in a vice like grip. It was easy to break, metal stronger than flesh, and the soldier spun to deliver a sound punch to the man's abdomen, next grabbing the base of his neck and ramming him into the nearest wall. His skull made a sickening sound as it split, the man falling limp before the soldier turned to his next target.

The red head barely hesitated for a second before he ran, clearly knowing he wouldn't survive in a fist fight and intent on finding weaponry. It took less than a second for the soldier to catch up, metal arm curling around his neck and tightening. A snap sounded as the man slid to the floor.

Drawing on his knowledge about basic base design, the soldier used trial and error to find the dorm rooms, kicking open the door and startling the few men buried under their covers. He only had a few seconds before they recovered their bearings, so he surged forward, gripping the nearest man by the ankle and tearing him away from his mattress. When the lean body was spread on the floor, he shot down, holding it there with a knee to the chest as silver fingers reached for the familiar weight of a blade.

The soldier gripped the weapon before slamming it down, piercing a barely open eye before he took note of the man charging him from across the room. His war cry didn't last long, cut short as the soldier straightened and crushed his vocal chords with a well-aimed jab to the neck, and he staggered backwards, clutching the damage and choking on blood. Advancing, the soldier finished the job by landing a kick to the center of his chest, smugly watching as the body fell back to create a small crater in the far wall.

Then he noted pain.

The soldier growled when the first bullet rang out, ducking in time to dodge a complete hit; steel slashing through the flesh on his side instead. It burnt, _stung_ , but it grounded him even further and he flipped the nearest mattress in both distraction and defense. Knowing it wouldn't hold, he darted around it and grabbed the barrel of the gun, crushing it with metal fingers before pushing it backwards and up, using the steel to break bone.

When the agent howled in pain, gripping his nose reflexively, he shifted the blade in his gloved hand. Quickly, with a movement barely seen, he cut directly across the man's throat, barely avoiding the spray of blood that followed.

The gun was useless, and knowing this he threw it to the side, eyes instead drawn by the smaller pistol poking out from the corner of a discarded pillow. _That will do._ There were still two others in the room, one scrambling to grab his own hidden weapon and the other apparently still trying to get their bearings. The soldier drew up the gun and shot the first just as tired fingers closed around the hidden cleaver, but when he moved to take out the other he hesitated.

Frightened golden eyes stared back.

 _Samara?_

Bucky blinked in confusion before it registered that his doctor wasn't before him, that the eyes were too harsh to be even be considered beautiful. The soldier's finger tightened on the trigger, and thankfully the bullet destroyed any evidence of whiskey irises.

Closing his own eyes, he shook his head. _Focus._ The room was empty save for the fallen bodies, and he didn't bother to check their personal belongings before storming from the room. He had to find the back exit and disarm it somehow – easiest way was to fuck up the lock and make it useless unless blown clean from its hinges.

He didn't run to his target, but his pace was quick, and his grip around the pistol was strong. No one stopped him as he prowled towards the back door, and happily he noted it was still closed, dust surrounding the doorway revealing it hadn't been used in some time. With a flick of his wrist, he twisted the handle, the lock groaning in displeasure at the treatment.

More gunfire sounded, and on instinct he dropped below chest level as he spun, already aiming between two startled eyes as he lifted his new pistol. Another shot, and the body hit the ground, the soldier stalking over it without compassion as he checked up and down the hallway before moving on. _There wasn't space for compassion in a war._ Besides – if his count was correct, that was eight down, five to go.

The soldier moved at a faster stride now, hurrying from one end of the compound to the other. Yet again, he wasn't interrupted until he hit his destination, two men lazily yawning over steaming cups of tea as they traded conversation. It was easier now that he had a gun. Two more shots echoed, and then he checked over the room, making the mental note to come back here. _Matches and gasoline will be in the kitchen._

That left the communal area – again he was almost mad at how easy it was, the single agent hitting the ground before he'd even realized the door was open – and the command center, but hearing voices, he hesitated outside the door.

Their communications were down, but internal and external cameras were no doubt functioning. The remaining two or more agents would know that he'd been granted entry, and that he'd then proceeded to tear through the ranks with nothing but a tiny blade and a pistol. They'd be waiting for him, watching him…

Turning, he pointedly looked up at the small red dot in the corner of the hallway, recognizing the camera. He smiled, almost tempted to wave, but with another look at the door he made up his mind. It was thick steel but the lock would be weak, enough so a single kick would break it. It would do, as long as he kept a grip on it; he'd need to use the steel as cover from the armed men hiding in the room.

… unless he kicked it hard enough to send it flying into said armed men?

Backing up a step, he threw his weight into his next kick, the force sending the metal flying into the two men cowering with raised weapons behind it. The soldier jumped onto the steel, climbing over it before gripping it and rolling it under his hands. The agents groaned, hands fluttering to grip broken bones and he snorted at the pathetic picture, eyes shifting onto the rifle hovering beside one of the men.

He could almost imagine his companion's comment at the sight. _Well, well, well, what do we have here?_

Reaching down, he scooped up the familiar weight of the weapon and hefted it in his hands. Good balance, and the scope was decent enough for the precision he tended to shoot with. Experimentally, he bought it to his eye and aimed a perfect shot into a gaping mouth. The pained moan from one of the agents fell quiet as he chuckled.

 _Perfect._

But it wasn't until he turned around, catching the familiar outfit that he realized how perfect it really was.

* * *

"You're sure?"

The blond man didn't even blink. "Positive."

"And you said it's been two now? Two nights and two hits?"

Resting both his hands on the steering wheel, said blond nodded, eyes narrowing at the tall building beside them. And beside him, his companion hummed out a sigh at his approval. "So night three…" he noted idly, hand hovering by his lips. "Means hit three."

"The Moscow Rules, Tony. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is enemy action. Only this isn't the enemy acting out, is it?"

The genius's jaw twitched at the pointed question. "Time to meet the man who's taking care of HYDRA for us."

Steve sent him a knowing look. "I wonder who it is…"

* * *

 **Bit of a time jump, what with the beginning being him admitting he has the addresses, then a flashback, then a jump to the next night and now whatever the hell that ending was. Which, by the way, is the third night…**

 **Literal time travel man.**

 **Taila xx**


	19. Public displays of a what?

He looked the same.

Everything have changed – the times, the war, the reasons to fight – but he hadn't. Everything and anything that could've changed had, leaving the world a little colder and larger, but _he still looked the same._

Steve felt his breath catch, mind reeling exactly as it had back on that highway, shocked that the man he'd mourned was standing less than twenty feet away. He tried not to show it, tried to keep the hope from lighting up his features but he knew the billionaire beside him saw it, knew he failed at keeping his emotions in check.

Because a few seconds after he'd caught sight of the other man, he'd felt the warm grip sear through his shirt, restraining him with nothing but a hand on his arm and a small mutter of; _"Steve…"_

His throat was burning. "Buck."

He was decked out the same way he'd been on the highway and the carrier, black buckles and leather holding the assassin together as he lazily wandered down the street. There was distinct lack of the goggles or the dark mask he'd initially worn though, and the blond felt his chest tighten when blue eyes flickered over the street.

Whatever the soldier was looking for however, he didn't find, and blue eyes shifted back to the pavement.

Tony let out a sigh beside him, the warm breath billowing out to fan across the blond's cheekbones. "He's moving pretty quick for an older fellow and – oh shit…" he groaned, slumping back as his grip on his styrofoam cup tightened. His _fifth_ styrofoam cup previously brimming with caffeine. "He set the place on fire again. Like that wasn't annoying the first two times."

"He's erasing evidence," Steve murmured back, barely giving the growing cloud of smoke a second look. "We need to follow him. He has to be staying somewhere nearby. Somewhere in the city."

The billionaire gave him a pointed look. "This may be _my_ van, but you're the one driving. You wanna follow your war buddy so bad, start moving."

He was? "Oh." The blond sent his lap a strange glare, almost like he was blaming his legs for putting him behind the steering wheel. "So, follow him at a safe distance – find where he's staying and what, send in a team? Is that really a smart idea? He's hyped on adrenaline; it'll be like trying to calm down an enraged bull straight after waving a red flag in its face."

Tony snorted. "Bad analogy," he decided to declare, looking once to the blond before checking out the assassin again. "Why are we still sitting here? Your cyborg boyfriend is seconds away from giving us the slip. Come on, I thought you were meant to be some awesome spy person?"

"I'm a soldier, actually. Not trained in espionage." Steve started the polished van, carefully pulling back onto the street and taking the corner he'd seen the brunet head towards. He didn't slow down, not wanting the man to realise he had a tail, and instead drove past him, rounding onto the next road and parking again. "He'll be staying somewhere miles away from here, don't you think?"

"Most likely," the genius beside him nodded. "Anything in this area is either a business or over a grand a night and I don't think he can afford those – okay, so why is he going into a coffee shop? Assassin's don't drink coffee. I thought they survived on the blood of their victims?"

Steve snapped back to attention, basically planting his face against the glass as he growled out a short reprimand. Despite the sarcastic comment, the genius hadn't been lying, and he caught the back of a dark head disappearing into an all-night barista and bakery, the door swinging shut with an odd sense of finality. Confusion littered his thoughts when he lost sight of broad shoulders, eyes drifting upwards to take in the building. It was only one level, and startling homely looking compared to the taller skyscrapers surrounding it, it's pastel shades a stark contrast to the beiges and creams of the city.

It stood out.

 _Just like Bucky…._

"I can't see what he's doing," Tony admitted, and the blond was nudged to the side by calloused fingers. "I thought these binoculars were meant to be top of the line? I can barely see out the damn car window."

Steve made a sound in the back of his throat, taking the black machinery away from the genius. "I'll keep watch. You should call Nat, get her to put together a team and ready them to move out. We going with SHIELD or SWAT?"

Tugging out his phone, the billionaire shrugged back. "I'll tell her to get whatever she can. I have a security detail, but they're trained to deal with over active press, not cyborg assassins. Especially ones with an aversion to personal hygiene and bright colours," he muttered, lips pursed as he typed in a number with surprising accuracy. "I mean; your beloved war buddie _does_ know what a shaver is right?"

"Tony…"

The man grinned his way, tongue poking out childishly, before the smile slipped into something more practised and his eyes flickered away. "Natty, that you? I need a favour…"

Steve blinked before looking back to the building, binoculars lifted to cover his eyes and arms ready to lower themselves at a moment's notice. He knew that even if his best friend happened to look towards their vehicle, he'd only see blacked out windows and decals for a pizza shop – _come on, it'll be inconspicuous and it gives us an excuse to eat pizza! –_ but he couldn't help the slight paranoia. This was the first lead they had on him that was proving to _be_ something. It was a chance.

And why the hell was he using binoculars? The shop was less than twenty feet away. _Damn it Tony._

"… A coffee shop, actually, 'bout a block away from the tower?" Stark was talking again, and his voice brushed over the skin of the soldier's neck. "I don't know. It's a simple thing. One floor, cheesy paint job…"

Movement fluttered behind the fogged out glass, and Steve tore his focus from the man behind him, watching the door open with a pinched brow.

"Wait…" Tony seemed just as confused as he was, taking in the new figure as he continued to speak to the woman on the phone. "Okay, he was using the coffee shop as a pit stop? He changed outta his assassin get-up," he murmured, leaning closer with a short hum. "Oh, uh, dark pants, and what looks like a dark hoodie too? He's still got the stubble and long luscious locks though. I swear to god if he even thinks about putting on a baseball cap, I'll – "

Bucky shouldered a backpack, fixing a plain navy cap over his head.

" – And he put on a hat. I'm done. Nope," Tony slumped back and sighed, shaking his head. "I've lost all faith in our assassinating community. Ya'll need to learn how to fit in better."

Steve missed the red head's reply, but the paling pallor of the genius's cheeks was enough. _He's moving again, don't lose him._ Starting the car with a rumble, he waited to check if the sound had gained any attention before slowly pulling from the curb, the man beside him still running his mouth.

"At least you can do the whole _undercover_ thing!" Tony argued, almost a little too loudly. "Barnes is failing. It's almost sad. I feel bad for him."

The blond soldier let out a short sigh, waiting for the man to turn another corner before finally moving to follow him again. Bucky didn't appear to have noticed them yet, his eyes transfixed by something in his hands. Was it a journal? Using his free hand, he picked up the binoculars, thrusting them across the car to his companion. "What's he holding?"

Tony grunted, but took the metal and held it to his features. "Huh, looks like a notebook? Maybe he's writing about his day?" he guessed lamely, phone still pressed against his ear, the woman on the other end no doubt waiting for an address. " _Dear Diary – today I brutally murdered a bunch of undercover agents, and then I had a coffee date at three."_

Steve gave the billionaire an unimpressed glance.

"What?" Tony defended, lips twitching like he was holding back the urge to smile. "Actually no, you're right. I don't think he scored a date. _After brutally murdering a bunch of undercover agents, I went to a coffee shop alone because I'm sad without my Stevie._ How was that? I basically took the entries from your diary and switched about the names."

"I don't have a diary."

"I know. It's a man pain journal."

Steve sent the man another sharp look, not finding the strength to argue when he noticed their quarry slowing in his strides. "We'll finish this later," he threatened idly, frowning as the assassin closed the book and pushed into a building. "Why's he going in there?"

"Because it's a hotel?" Tony noted weakly, speaking to both the woman at his ear and man at his side. "But it's five star? There's no way he's able to pay for this right, and why _would_ he when he could find a cheaper one just by travelling few blocks downtown? Doesn't make sense. Unless he's squatting in one of the empty rooms?"

With the words, the genius had turned to him for approval, and the soldier gave a small shrug. "Give her the address. I don't care if he's paying for the room or not," he decided, leaning back carefully and parking the van. "How long will it take her to get here?"

"Twenty minutes. But what happened to not going in after him?"

Steve narrowed his eyes at the building, anxiety clawing at his chest. "He's the master at disappearing acts," he pointed out. "Twenty minutes will be enough for him to relax, but hopefully not enough for him to gather his belongings and leave. We'll comb the building, search every floor and every room. Are we gonna need a warrant?"

Tony was already nodding, relaying the question to the red head with a tightness in his jaw. "Okay, done deal. See you in twenty," he promised after a few beats of silence, taking his phone away from his ear when the screen went black. "She'll cover the legality bits, so don't worry about a warrant. But it looks like we've got time to kill before we can storm the building. Small miracles." A sigh echoed in the small confines of the car. "Anyway, I'm going to get a coffee, because I'm running low on reasons to live right now. You okay to watch the building without me for a little bit?"

"I'll be fine," Steve allowed, blue eyes turning a familiar shade of hopeful. "Get me a hot chocolate?"

The genius gave him a small look. "Daw, aren't you just _precious_ ," he murmured, reaching out to ruffle through blond locks. "Don't grow up."

Steve frowned good naturedly as the man stumbled from the car, groaning when his legs were forced to hold his weight. "Grow up? You remember the whole bit about how I was born in 1920, right?" he demanded, smiling lightly when the man flipped him the bird. "Don't forget my marshmallows!"

* * *

The future was confusing.

Things had been invented despite there being no need for them, while things that were needed had been left behind in the passing years. If he wanted, he had the means to turn a frozen banana into a tasty dessert, but he didn't have the means to cure disease or mend broken skin. He could use a small computer screen to connect three coloured jewels – he didn't understand that game or why the doctor seemed so obsessed – but he couldn't flick a switch and end someone's pain.

If someone had told him back in the war that this was the future he was fighting for, he would've dropped his rifle. Dropped it and gone to spend more time with his family and friends because they were what mattered.

But he hadn't. He'd fought, he'd fallen, and now he was _here…_

Trying to figure out how the hell he was meant to open the door with what looked like a credit card.

Bucky cursed, shifting so the backpack was sitting more comfortably on his shoulder as he struggled with the plastic sheet. It was small, and similar to his identification cards, but this one had a long black line and their room number painted on one side. He'd seen the doctor use it hours before, but couldn't seem to grasp the memory again now that he needed it.

 _Wait a minute..._

Carefully grabbing the notebook he'd tucked under his arm, Bucky flipped it open to the back, bypassing the few pages that listed the new things he'd discovered he liked and landing on one in particular. _Confusing shit._ At the bottom there was his most recent addition, the whole deal with cell phone reception that the doctor had tried to explain, but a few above that was written _hotel keys._

Yes, the problem had arisen once two nights before, when – much to the woman's amusement – he'd locked himself out. But then, much to her _not_ amusement, he wasn't really to blame since the gunshot wound along his side had been bleeding, and he'd been a little woozy from the blood loss.

His cheek still stung from where she'd slapped him.

"Run the key through the slit, make sure…" Bucky frowned at his own writing, fumbling with the card in his flesh hand. "… make sure the black line is going through the reader?" he finished, looking up to follow his own instructions with a nervous action.

When the lock opened with an audible _click_ , he felt the urge to smile in victory grow along his cheeks, chest thrumming in pride. It may have been a small win, but he still had it and the victory was made all the sweeter by the knowledge that even his doctor was struggling – constantly swiping her cards the wrong way in both the hallways and in stores once their purchases had been rung up.

Bucky, one. Samara, zero.

Checking his surroundings, he pushed the door open and slipped through, quietly shutting it behind him and setting the lock back in place. He was almost tempted to wake up the dark haired woman, brag that he'd gotten the key card right, and then crawl into bed as well, _but that was selfish._ Besides, if he waited until she was already awake, then she'd no doubt be pissed, and her grumpy face really was something to write home about. All flashing eyes, a pushed out lower lip, heaving chest and –

The bed was empty.

Bucky started back, eyes flashing to the adjoining bathroom and instantly searching for both light and life without so much as a second thought. "Sam?" He stormed towards the other door and tried the handle, chest tightening when it swung open to reveal empty darkness. "Sam? Where are you?"

With something worryingly similar to fear building in his throat, he moved into the longue again, staring down the glaringly empty room. It was only – he checked the clock on the wall with a sinking heart – twenty past four in the morning? Where in hell would she go now? Hesitating for only a second, he rushed back into the bedroom and looked for her things, confusion growing when he saw her bags still littering the floor, and clothing smattered about the room in odd intervals.

All her belongings were still here, even her phone, and it hadn't looked like anyone had made an attempt to pack her things. She hadn't been planning on leaving him if the signs were to be believed, so if she was gone then…

 _Then it wasn't voluntary._

Had he killed everyone at the safe houses? He couldn't recall seeing life in any of the bodies he'd left in his wake, and he was aware of his surroundings whenever he'd left wasn't he? He know if someone had managed to follow him back here…

Bucky practically threw his body back towards the door, almost ripping it from its hinges as he checked the hallway over with frantic eyes. Again, there was nobody and nothing to see. _Shit._ Had he missed someone then? Maybe in the previous night's someone had followed him home and waited for him to leave before storming the room.

Before finding his accomplice. Before finding a metaphorical ace.

"You better pray she's unharmed," he growled, resting a single hand against the wall of the elevator to ground his mind. His thoughts were running rampart, even the soldier buried under blurred memories coming out to scream and kick in anger alongside the sergeant he'd lost in the war.

His mind divided in two or not, they both knew that the doctor wasn't allowed to leave, wasn't allowed to hurt. Samara was…

Bucky burst from the steel cage. " _Mine_ …" His silver fingers clenched and unclenched rhythmically, eyes roaming over the lobby to check for anything he might've missed on his way in ten minutes' prior. They landed on a worker, one who shifted and sweated under his glare and he stalked closer. "You. Did you see a woman leave here? Dark hair, slim, quite short..."

The youth shrunk back, hitting the wall with a muted yelp as the soldier advanced. "U-uh, the one in pyjamas?" he squeaked.

"Yes," he allowed slowly, eye twitching in irritation. "Was someone with her?"

"D-dude, if your girl is cheating on y-you, that ain't my problem," the kid tried, only to shriek when he took one step forward. "Okay, okay! Shit, she left like fifteen minutes ago? She was on her own, I swear!"

Bucky backed up with a short nod, not offering anything more as he stalked towards the hotel entrance, leaving the stammering kid behind him. He'd get the doctor to tip him before they left for another city. _If you find her, that is._

At the thought, his anger, which had been simmering down, flared to life and he pushed back outside, lips set in a hard line. So she was still in her pyjama's, barely gone fifteen minutes, and also on her own? He felt his eyes close for a split second of weakness. If she'd gotten up in the middle of the night because she'd wanted some kind of snack or drink, he'd kill her, usefulness be _damned_.

Calming himself with a deep breath, he looked over the street, brow coming together over his eyes and mind struggling to think of what direction she would've headed towards. Wasn't there a convenience store somewhere close by? She'd pointed it out earlier that day, muttering something about sandwich cookies and chocolate milk, but he couldn't remember where they'd been coming from, or which street they'd –

 _There!_

Dark hair shone as it passed under a street lamp, the woman hidden beneath the messy bangs busy rifling through a plastic bag. It was Samara without a doubt; unharmed, and yes, still wearing the oversized shirt and baggy sweats that played as her pyjamas.

Oh, he was going to kill her.

Despite the thought, Bucky still felt himself sag in relief. "Thank god," he breathed, a hand moving to rub the back of his neck as he continued watching her walk. He could see her lips moving, muttering something as she dug about in her bag, but because of the distance he couldn't quite hear what she was saying. Then again, even if she'd been three feet away, he doubted he would've heard a thing – not with the way his heart was pounding in his ears, deafeningly loud and blocking out everything and anything.

Everything but the loud, and angered; _"Fuck!"_ that echoed down the street when two bodies collided.

Bucky straightened, eyes narrowing at the man who'd bumped into his doctor, watching as the woman hurried to apologize. Her features were twisting, hands waving uselessly as the guy looked at the mess of cardboard and coffee staining the ground and his shirt. Again, from such a distance, he couldn't hear the words exchanged, but both people came away unhappy – one furious, and one genuinely upset.

He waited until the doctor safely crossed the street before bustling back into the lobby, refusing to stay outside least he go and wipe that frown off the man's features. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes in an attempt to calm himself and waited for the familiar sound of light feet. "Samara."

The woman in question jumped violently, the door swinging shut behind her as she started to the side. _"Jesus fuck!"_

Bucky quirked up a brow.

"What the hell dude!" Samara reached out to playfully slap his arm, breathing out a relieved sigh. "Good god, what is your problem? Hiding in shadowy corners and scaring me. Honestly, do you have nothing better to do with your time?"

Despite the hit, she was already waving him forward, waiting until they were side by side before walking towards the elevators. Her attention instantly went back to the contents of her bags, and he narrowed his eyes in slight annoyance. "Why aren't you in bed?" he demanded testily, folding his arms as the doors closed in on them. "Why did you leave the room? Where did you go?"

Samara was the one to cock a brow now, and she lifted the bag in her hands almost mockingly. "I wasn't in bed 'cause I woke up alone – _again._ I left the room because after forty minutes of sitting on my ass I got bored," she listed, and he knew that if both her hands had been freed, she'd be ticking off her fingers in a truly childish fashion. "And I went to the corner store because damn it, if you're going to sneak out to do god knows what every night, then I'm gonna cheat on my diet – again – and eat some cookies. Fight me."

Looking down, he noted she was holding up a blue packet of the aforementioned snack and – and hadn't he sworn to kill her if she'd left for something so stupid? With a startled blink, he realised that if he so much as _thought_ about it, his stomach dropped all the way to hell and back.

Bucky refused to look any deeper into the attachment. "You scared me," he murmured instead.

The rustling of plastic stopped. "Yeah well, you scare me," she allowed softly, amusement fading into fond worry within seconds. "I wake up, you're gone and when you come home, you're bleeding. Consider this payback for getting your ass shot and making me worry over you."

Bucky also refused to look any deeper into whatever the hell was churning his stomach. "I didn't get shot."

Samara sighed tiredly. "No, you just managed to have a gunpowder burn, or whatever you call it," she pointed out, free hand shoving a whole cookie past her lips. She spoke around the food, spraying crumbs carelessly; "And I can see you making up an excuse in your head. Don't even try it, son, I'll prove whatever you say wrong and you know it."

Bucky's lips snapped shut, words dying on his tongue. "I wasn't going to make an excuse," he lied, shrugging as the elevator doors opened again.

The pathetic line earned him a short and confused look from the female. He knew he was meant to snap back with something clever, but for some reason he didn't have the strength to argue like he usually would. Instead he felt unbelievably exhausted as they both wandered back to their room, his bones dragging him down.

"Did – why is the door open?" Samara snorted, pushing it all the way with her hip. "Did you do this?"

He shrugged again.

"I get that you have trouble _opening_ it and all, but now you can't even close it?" The woman grinned his way, dark crumbs decorating her lips before she lifted the plastic container like an offering. "You ever had an Oreo?"

Again, a shrug was her only reply.

Samara eyed him for a few seconds, dropping the shopping bag on the counter as she chewed her latest cookie. "Alright then, where did you get shot?" she demanded, moving back around the island to look him over as she wiped her hands. "And where the hell are you going every night to even _get_ shot? Are you playing an intense game of paintball or something? Without me? I'm hurt."

"I didn't get shot," Bucky repeated, shaking his head when she moved to tug at his clothing. Grabbing both her shoulders, he pushed her away, gently creating room between them so she could read the honesty on his face. "I didn't get shot and the previous _injury_ is healing perfectly. I'm just tired, Sam, I had a long day."

Her glare didn't let up, even in the face of his _big blues_ as she liked to call them. "And a long night apparently."

At the words, he shot her a warning look, squeezing her shoulders. "Think we could just go back to bed?" he tried, rubbing his eyes with silver fingers and even throwing in a yawn. It was easy to see the exact moment she crumbled, her eyes softening and warming up into a golden pool as her lip was sucked between her teeth.

"Okay, yeah, whatever…" Samara gave a smile back, reaching out to smooth his hair down with a chuckle. "I'm probably gonna crash in about three seconds anyway. The sugar in these things only lasts so long, and I didn't bother to grab a coffee while I was out."

 _Speaking of coffee…_

Bucky trailed after her as she wandered back towards the bedroom. "Did you bump into someone outside?"

"Hmm?" Whiskey eyes hit him like a freight train. "Oh yeah, I did. Apologized of course, but the dude wasn't having any of it. He just muttered something unsavoury then swaggered off back to his million dollar apartment. It was kinda my fault, I wasn't looking where I was going and…" she winced, lip still between her teeth as she tucked her legs under the covers. "Boom. Head on collision."

He frowned, ear's twitching at the sound of a commotion outside. "Yeah? Are you okay?" he questioned, moving towards the window and looking down. There were cars, lots of them, pulling up outside the building.

Samara made a small sound behind him. "I'm fine, you worry wart, gee," she muttered, but he heard her shifting about, the quick patter of her footsteps coming up behind him. "Okay, uh, what's going on down there? I feel like I'm in a _CSI_ episode?"

Inwardly, the assassin made the note to look whatever the hell she was talking about up, but outwardly, he narrowed his eyes into dangerous slits. "I don't know," he admitted, stomach dropping when men piled out of the back of the trucks. "Changed my mind. I do know. Pack your things."

Once again, he could see the exact moment the doctor understood. "Oh."

But he _didn't_ see the moment she moved to do as he asked.

"Why are you still standing here?" Bucky snapped, dropping the curtain in case someone looked up. "This building is about to be swarming with armed men who are, probably, looking for me. You still wanna be here when they arrive?"

Samara was going to chew her lip to pieces at the rate she was going. "No, not really," she murmured, grabbing his arm when he moved to storm away and pack his own belongings. "But I don't wanna pack my things. And I don't wanna have to ask why you have people looking for you, so I won't do that either, but I think – Buck, what if they're expecting us to not wanna be here?"

He stilled. "Sam?"

"I mean, if it was me, I'd be watching all exits just waiting for your ass to try and escape," she tried for humour, but the curve of her lips wasn't quite right. "I wouldn't be expecting you to stay put. And I wouldn't expect you to have someone with you either."

Bucky blinked, taking the woman and her rounded shoulders in as he thought over her words. "They'll do room searches."

He watched her think, eyes flitting over the room before landing back on his features. "Then we wait until they do ours," she decided, nodding once. "But you're in the shower, because we have an early start and you're still getting ready. There's a medical convention in town and I'm a speaking doctor. You're my partner remember? _James."_

He could've kissed her.

Frankly, he should've.

"You're a genius," he praised shortly, not knowing how else he was meant to thank her for what she was doing. "But you're also an idiot."

Samara pulled a face, moving away from him to grab a towel. "Hey, shut up. Who just came up with a plan to avoid the authorities? Not you, I know that for sure," she mocked, thrusting it in his direction. "So how, pray tell, am I an idiot?"

Bucky lifted a brow slowly, beginning to shift towards the bathroom. "You're still here," was all he murmured.

The doctor opened her mouth, apparently about to say something before she settled on shaking her head. "I'll get dressed in something more formal, make it look like we've been up a while. Get your ass in the bathroom. Just start the shower or something, you don't actually need to get in it, I don't think."

"What happens when they leave?"

Samara was moving towards her bags, tipping out the contents impatiently. "Uh, I guess they'll be back if they don't find you right? Then the full room searches will probably start – if _NCIS_ is any indication as to how these things work – so we leave then. My car is in the garage, and all we have to do is use the elevator and go to basement level. Done."

Bucky wanted to say it probably wouldn't be that easy, but the woman interrupted him by thrusting a plastic container in his hands. "What's this?" he questioned, averting his eyes rather hurriedly when he noticed she was shucking clothing.

"Shaver. Loose the facial hair, and I'll slick back your hair before we leave," Samara's voice was muffled through her shirt. "It'll be enough that a quick glance will confuse them. Also, change your clothing."

He looked to the shaver, then shamelessly looked up to the woman, trying to act as though the state of undress didn't worry him. "You're rather good at this," he noted, swallowing at the sight of long legs. "Should I be concerned?"

The woman gave him a quick smile, shimmying that pencil skirt up her hips. "Only about my lack of a life. I've watched about every episode of every crime show known to man. I don't have friends so," she shrugged. "It's not like I have anything better to do with my time. Besides, I love those shows. It's fun trying to think on how the killer could've stopped them from finding out."

Bucky blinked.

"What?" Samara frowned, looking over her shoulder before down at her body. "Is something wrong?"

Slowly, the assassin shook his head. "Thank you," he muttered, hesitating before darting forward and wrapping her up in a hug. If she questioned it – or if his own head did – he'd string together some lie about her little scare and the men showing up playing with his right mind. Thinking she'd been hurt and then seeing a situation where she could be hurt was messing up his emotions or whatever.

But surpsingly, she didn't argue, instead just hugging him back with both arms around his middle. "You're welcome. Now go shave or something, partner dear, we have a medical convention to get too and all."

Pulling back, he nodded and moved towards the bathroom, locking the door firmly behind him. They wouldn't have long before people came knocking on their door – they were only the ninth level, weren't they? – and once the authorities were safely above them, they'd need to shoot down to the garage preferably without being seen. It was going to take a miracle to pull off, but it was miles ahead of his _pack and run_ plan.

Bucky cocked his head at the shaver she'd given him, relieved to find it was a simple blade and something he almost recognized. Again, he'd have to thank her when he could. Ripping open the packet, he started up the water and set to ridding his cheeks and chin of harsh dark hair.

He could hear the doctor hurrying about, the odd curse floating through the door, and wondered if he was doing the right thing by letting her answer the door alone. Maybe she was going to tell them where he was? And if she did there wasn't exactly a window he could escape from, and even if there was he had a nine story drop to deal with after that.

She would've planned it perfectly…

The soldier shifted his head, now working on the other side when the first proved to be smooth enough. She wouldn't though, would she? If she was planning on deceiving him all along, she wouldn't have gone out of her way for him like she had so many times. She wouldn't make sure he was smiling, or buy him something simply because his eyes had lingered on it for a few seconds too long.

 _But_ , he wondered as he ran the blade under the water, _I have no proof she only went to that store when she left, for all I know she could've gone to the cops and told them… And it is_ _ **her**_ _plan to stay put…_

Mistrust grew in his chest slowly, like a creeping vine winding around his lungs. Maybe he should just –

There was sharp knock on the door, one he could barely hear over his thoughts and the running water.

Again, he heard her swear lightly, her footsteps hesitating before she ran from the room with barely audible clicks. He almost expected to hear her return immediately, booted footsteps following her, but there was the sound of muffled voices instead and slowly, he ran the shaver down his cheek again. The voices were staying at the same pitch, not coming closer but also not leaving…

Bucky ran the blade down his cheek one more time, staring his own self down in the mirror as he listened to the door shut once again. She hadn't turned on him? She'd actually been _with him_ , not only pretending to be?

It was another knock that broke his thoughts, this time on the door separating him from the woman. "Buck? They're gone," Samara whispered through the wood. "They have the hotel records with them, so when I said I was with my partner they thought I was telling the truth."

He looked to the door, blinking once before he threw it open. "Are they still on this level?"

The doctor was watching him with sharp eyes. "I think so?" she allowed, hesitating before shooting him her usual smile. "You look good clean shaven. Come on, you need to change clothing and I want to slick back your hair. Ever heard of a man bun?"

Bucky refused to allow confusion to colour his features, instead shaking his head as he followed her, head held high. "I don't, but I trust that you do?" he mused idly, following her direction and shedding his hoodie. The dark red shirt lining his chest made him feel like he wanted to _cry_. "I'll keep this one on actually. Pass me those jean things you bought?"

Samara smiled, and did as he asked. "When you've got them on, just sit on the bed. I should have a hair tie somewhere. Honestly, I don't understand how I'm always losing those things, you know?"

He heard more of a commotion out in the hallways and fought to keep from tensing as tugged the jeans over his booted feet. It wasn't an easy task and he pretended to be fully engrossed in it as the thundering footsteps passed their room – without so much as faltering. Sinking onto the bed, he gestured to the woman and waited as she scrambled onto the mattress behind him. "I think that's them. You got your keys?"

"Yeah, and my wallet," she promised, gently brushing back his hair. "We'll fuck around until evening, huh? Slip back inside after they're gone."

Bucky couldn't nod, not with fingers combing through his hair. "Alright."

Said fingers hesitated. "Are, uh, are you okay?" Samara questioned lightly, pulling his hair tight, but not uncomfortably so. "I get that some shit is really going down, but you're acting weird."

He almost laughed. "I'm fine, just hoping this plan of yours is gonna work."

The snort was comical, and something that was almost a smile grew on his features, some of the tightness in his chest fading into warmth. "Oh puh-lease," the doctor mocked, smoothing one hand over his head. "My plans always work. I've never been caught sneaking out of work by Rachel, or away from functions by my parents. I'm too good at the sneak."

" _At the sneak?"_ Bucky echoed. "Actually don't answer that. We need to go, quickly, before they travel through the level again."

Her hands left him, and he silently mourned the loss as he tested the new weight of his hair. It was a little strange not feeling it brush against his cheeks with every movement. "You're right, come on," Samara urged, pushing at his shoulder blades impatiently. "Let's go be ninja's and shit. I bags choosing our theme song."

The only _real_ ninja followed her to the door. "I vote for our theme song to be silence…"

"Yeah? Well, you're a nerd."

Bucky actually did smile that time, but the action died when she flung the door open and looked around the hallway. With a wild gesture, she waved him forward and locked the door behind them both, apparently uncaring that any second now armed men could burst from around the corner. He tried to copy her optimism, really he did, it just didn't _stick_.

"Okay I veto this theme song, because it honestly sucks," Samara whispered to him, pressing the button for the lower levels.

Whispering back – who was he to ruin her game – he nudged her side, trying to act as calm as she was. "What's wrong with silence?"

"Everything. Everything is wrong with silence."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "The only thing wrong here is you. Shut up and enjoy our new theme song," he instructed, shoulders straightening up as the elevator lurched sickeningly to a stop. As soon as the door was open, he was dragging her out into the small lobby that separated them from the concrete walls of the garage. "Okay, come on, let's just – "

The doctor hit his back with a small sound, confusedly asking why he'd stopped before she looked around him, her exhale hitting the back of his neck. The garage was swarming with men in black, some barking orders and some checking weapons as they scurried about. It wasn't until a group of them shifted, parting like a sea, that he realised how and why they were there.

It was the blond man.

"Is that Captain America?" Samara hissed in his ear, firm grip on his arm tugging him back into the foyer. "Holy shit, you're – nope, we're going back upstairs. Come on, stop dragging your heels boy!"

Snapping out of whatever the hell _that_ had been, Bucky smashed a finger on the call button when footsteps sounded close to their location. A group of men were heading their way, and he didn't even have a weapon on him, let alone a way to get them both out of this alive. With a small chime, the elevator arrived and he pushed the woman through the door, hearing the men enter the lobby behind them.

 _Shit._

They were no doubt headed their way, and he had seconds to think of something to stop them from getting on the elevator. The notion hit him hard and absently he wondered if it was self-serving in more ways than one. "Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable," he muttered suddenly.

"Public displays of a what?"

Bucky turned to the woman, taking in the confused golden eyes and heaving chest. "Don't slap me," he commanded, swallowing down his hesitancy before throwing caution aside. They had _seconds_.

Holding her eyes, he took her cheek in one hand before swooping down to press his lips against her own, silver fingers hidden from view as they floated down to grip her hip. She let out a small startled sound, shoulders rounding up defensively, before she started to press back, her hands lifting to encircle his neck and tug him down.

Vaguely he heard the men stumble to a stop outside the elevator, someone clearing their throat in an attempt to interrupt them, but his mind was cut from coherency when softer lips parted to let out a sigh.

"… we'll just take the other elevator…"

 _Good idea._

He tightened his grip on the woman's hip, taking one step forward and pressing her back against the elevator wall as she slowly reclaimed the air between them. Opening his eyes – and when the fuck had he closed them? – he noted her own amber orbs staring outside, lips swollen and bruised a hypnotising shade of red.

Her smile was almost breathless. "They're gone," she pointed out, her hands lowering to sit innocently on his chest.

If they were gone, he had to pull back didn't he? Bucky blinked once, dropped his eyes to watch her absently lick her lips. "Someone's coming," he lied weakly, and the hand still cupping her features shifted so his thumb could stroke along her cheek bone.

Samara almost frowned. "What?" she murmured, trying to look over his shoulder in confusion. "Buck, no one's coming, they took the other elevator instead. We're okay."

 _We're really not._

Not bothering to lie again, he just tilted her head back up and reclaimed her lips.

* * *

 **What?**

 **Guys…**

 **Did you…**

 **Taila xx  
P.S this chapter is over seven thousand words long, and my brain hurts.**


	20. The truth hurts, huh mister?

Life was full of surprises.

Waking up after being experimented on, only to see your best friends head on a broader, taller, _more powerful_ set of shoulders? Surprising. Waking up again, this time after falling from a train, to see your arm replaced by something distractingly shiny and silver? Surprising _._

Being wide awake – he'd pinch himself to check, but his hands were full – and rocking against a willing body?

 _Surprising_.

Admittedly, the first two were a little unpleasant – while the blond may have saving him at the time, he'd been quite dejected when he realised he was now the smaller one, so yes _unpleasant_ – compared to the third, but they were no less surprising. If anything, he'd gone with the flow on the first two accounts, accepting his friends change or accepting his own, but he was a struggling a little now to swallow the shock.

Or swallow at all.

Or _breathe_.

Bucky blinked his eyes open, this time being the one to pull back and put space between their gaping lips. "So maybe someone isn't coming?" he muttered thickly, swallowing down the taste of chocolate and cream. It lingered on his tongue, mingled with the almost rich taste of the doctor panting against him, and he savoured it. "Does this count as me trying an oreo?"

The small giggle that echoed was almost drunken. "Okay so maybe someone isn't," Samara allowed, fingers relaxing and moving to toy with the buttons on his shirt. "Oh? Um, I guess it does count? Do you like them? They have more than one flavour, if you're interested. But just don't go near the birthday cake one or you'll regret the day you were born. Then again, the mint one is pretty terrible too so avoid that one as well actually. Birthday cake makes you regret being born, mint makes you regret even being conceived, that's how bad that is and – mmm!"

 _Thank_ _god_.

He finally had a way to stop the rambling.

Catching her lower lip between his teeth, he nibbled softly as the woman's voice died in her throat, the words giving way to quiet hum. "I like this one," he decided lowly, grinning when she rolled her eyes.

"Bad line. That was a bad line, and I'm _so_ disappointed in you right now," Samara sighed, wiggling slightly against him in either payback or discomfort. "Speaking of bad lines, I'm about to say one," she warned, pointedly lifting both her brows, a smile tugging at her lips. "I guess you could say that right now, I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place. And by rock I mean wall. And by hard place I mean you."

Bucky stared.

"Get it? Cause the walls behind me and your muscles are hard?" Samara tried, comically rapping her knuckles against his chest. "You do get it right or do I have to explain this all – _oh god,_ and I just comprehended what I said. Uh, Buck, by hard place I meant muscles, you know that right? Like, uh, the muscles on your chest not – "

He liked this new way of getting her to shut up, it was effective, efficient, maybe just a little self-serving…

Using the silver fingers on her hip to hike her upwards, he pressed her against the wall completely, feeling the next breath she took tremble through them both. This way was a hell of a lot quicker than glaring and waiting for her to notice, and it sat in his stomach better than throwing out an insult did. He got his silence, guilt free, and she got another use for her lips – a _better_ use, if he was being honest. Not that he didn't love her voice, but it just so happened that she tasted better than the purring tone could ever sound.

Samara let out a moan, something breathlessly quiet as he lowered both hands to hold her legs tightly, carrying her weight at his height. "Buck – Buck, I actually think someone's coming now," she murmured, words escaping when he shifted to press a kiss to her pulse point. The beat of her heart fluttered in time with her next sharp inhale. "The doors are still open, we didn't – _ah fuck_ – didn't press the button for our level."

Trailing his lips down her neck, he listened carefully, catching the purposeful stride of a single person growing closer to the open doors. At the sound, he moulded his body against her own even further, shifting so ungloved fingers danced up her skirt and…

The footsteps stuttered before quickly backing away. " _Oh god I –_ I'm sorry, I didn't know that…"

Recognizing the voice – their fucking luck – and wanting it _gone,_ Bucky bit down.

It was hard to hear what the blond man stumbled to say, what with the woman in his arms groaning and all, but he heard the footsteps basically trip over themselves as they evacuated. The humour of it – he was privately hoping the man fell, face planted, and someone recorded it – almost drowned out the pride he felt at causing the tremor travelling through pale limbs.

"Well, would you look at that…" Licking his lips, he pulled back, continuing to hold up the doctor as he reached out to press the button for their floor. "I told you someone was coming," he announced, watching to make sure the doors were closed before he returned his hand to warm skin. " _Someone_ we want to avoid. I did us both a favour."

Samara was glaring, amber eyes furious but glassy. "Did – Did you bite me?"

Looking to the red mark on her neck, he almost smiled. "I didn't break the skin," he defended, cocking his head as he took in the small wound. "You do know who that was right? I bit you for the greater good, stop arguing."

" _Stop argu_ – You bit me in front of the purest soul to ever walk this earth. How was that for the greater good? You probably scarred him, or shattered his innocence or something," the doctor hissed, wiggling again before looking at the ground and then his hands. "You can put me down now, you know? We've successfully diverted all attention and ruined our nations symbol, so down."

He squeezed the flesh under his hands, a chuckle building in his chest. " _Up_ ," he countered. "Who knows, he might take the stairs."

Samara made a strangled sound, slapping him with one hand while the other tugged on the loose bun that held his hair together. "You're just lucky he didn't recognize you," she pointed out, cheeks beginning to flush a deep red as she looked anywhere but him. "Buck _please_ , down?"

"The nicknames don't work on me," Bucky rumbled back, shifting her weight onto his hips so silver fingers were freed from the material of her skirt. He moved to brush aside a messy lock of hair, lips parting when it curled around the metal digit almost lovingly. "So what do we do now then? The garage is a no-go, and if we stay in our rooms they'll do a full search and find me."

The doctor blinked, and he could see her annoyance dwindling into bleak amusement. "The lobby?" she offered.

"Just walk out the front door?"

Samara chewed on her lower lip in thought, abusing the already bruised flesh with her teeth. He tried to focus on her words really, but the action was a little distracting. "Yes? I mean, would you see it coming if you were Steve? Steve Rogers. Captain America. The first Avenger…" she murmured, one brow lifting. "Why am I helping you hide from him? Isn't he like, one of the good guys? What the hell does that make you?"

Feigning ignorance, he'd barely heard what she said anyway so it wasn't too hard, he breathed out a short; "Huh?"

Golden eyes were unimpressed. "How have you _managed_ in the world of assassins? God, if some broad fluttered her eyelashes at you, you wouldn't even notice she was taking your gun," she snorted, tugging harshly on his tied hair before smoothing her fingers over his neck. "I mean, I could stab you right now and you wouldn't even know."

Bucky let out a sigh, staring down at her lips curiously. He could probably use his new found addiction to shut her up again, right? It wasn't like she'd actually complained about their kissing yet, if anything she appeared to enjoy it…

His hips pressed forward when her lip was sucked between her teeth.

"See, I just stabbed you, but did you notice? No, because you're so damn focused on my mouth. Hah, see, stabbed you _again_. Dude, pay attention to your surroundings," Samara scolded, slumping back so her head hit the wall. The pale length of her neck was revealed with the action, the tendons shifting as she swallowed. "I swear to god, if you're looking at my neck right now, I'll kill you. Not that you'd notice."

Bucky made a noise. "I'm paying attention…" he argued weakly, diving forward to mouth at the new soft skin on display. The doctor squirmed, hands fisting in the bottom of his shirt before a quiet chime interrupted his downwards path.

Fingers fluttered against the skin of his stomach for little more than a second before they were pulled back. "Doors open, Barnes. And nobody is coming so you better put me down or _I swear to god I'll…"_

He grinned as he pulled back, carefully lowering the woman until her feet hit the ground, heels clicking as they reconnected with a solid surface. "You'll _what_ exactly," he murmured, grabbing her hand and shifting towards the now open doors. He was barely a step away, the woman stumbling on her feet behind him, when he heard the new voices echoing down the hallway.

So maybe someone _was_ coming?

Again.

"Someone's coming," he whispered urgently, shooting his doctor a quick look. "Two someone's. Guards. Patrolling the floors most likely."

Samara blinked, and he could see the wheels turning behind her eyes. "Why did we have to drink so much," she muttered, darting forward and hooking his arm around her waist before grabbing his hips. "Honestly, last time we go out for some shots. You're such a lightweight."

Tangling his fingers in her shirt, successfully hiding silver fingers, he nodded and slumped his weight against her. "Are we almost home?" he slurred drunkenly, staring steadfastly at the ground as they emerged from the metal box. He could hear the guards falter in their steps when they appeared, but they didn't slow or stop, if anything they speed up.

"Ma'am?"

Samaras shoulder slipped out from under his chin as she turned. "Oh hello?" she chorused, voice bordering on drunken. "Is this more stuff about that guy wandering about? We know the drill, thanks fellas. Don't open the door for strangers and all that."

Bucky felt his lips quirk up, head still lowered. "We don't open the door for anyone full stop, darlin'," he mumbled in the fabric of her blazer, rolling his head so the majority of his features was hidden in the material. "But that's just cause your mothers fuckin' terrifying."

The doctor giggled, the sound interrupted by a small snort. " _Rude_."

An impatient sigh sounded from the men before them. "Is this your floor? Do you mind if I ask what room number?" The voice was polite, bordering on strained, but the assassin swallowed down his discomfort. At least the irritation would cloud their judgement somewhat. Both men would be focused on _not_ punching their drunk asses, instead of looking for familiar and wanted features.

"Right behind you, sweetheart," was the reply, and the woman struggled to fetch the key card from her purse. "That one right there. I'd invite you in for a coffee and all, but you know… I'm not meant to be opening the door for strangers."

Another sigh. "Do you mind if we check the room?"

Bucky felt panic light up in his chest. "Why do you wanna do that?" he grumbled, rolling his head back and peering down at them. "Me and my girl here wanna get to bed. Private party, if you get my meaning."

One of the guards twitched, cheek dancing up. "If we don't do it now, our buddies are gonna do it in about twenty minutes," he ground out. "Your choice."

Samara cut in then, voice bordering on silent warning as she stopped him from snapping back. "Good thing we only need twenty minutes," she announced, shifting forward so she could swipe the key through the lock. "Good day, sirs."

And with that, she slammed the door in their faces and secured a place in his heart forever.

Bucky blinked, staring at the expanse of wood. "You're perfect," he realised, straightening up and pointedly rolling up red sleeves. The man bun – or whatever – was pulled out next, and his hair spilled out to cover his neck again. It was a strangely secure feeling and he rolled his shoulders, relishing in the warmth provided from the brown locks. "Might have to keep you."

"Wait, perfect? We just gonna ignore the _twenty minutes_ comment?"

Bucky tilted his head her way, lips curving up. "We both know that's not true," he purred, shifting closer before stepping past her completely and moving towards the windows. The vans still laced the street, and more were incoming, creating a perfect line of black against the pavement. "We don't have a lot of time then, before they come?"

"Apparently," Samara swallowed, and any humour she might have felt faded into a frown. "We're fucked right?"

Missing the usual spark in whiskey irises, he tried for another crooked grin. "Well, I need more than twenty minutes, so no, we're not," he decided with a flourish, peering down to the street once more before pulling back.

The woman smiled at him, lips still kiss swollen but creating a pretty picture nonetheless. "Hardy har," she muttered, scrubbing her eyes without ruining the kohl outlining them. "Buck, I'm serious. What do we do now? One lot of those bastards think we're long gone at some medical convention, and now another lot think we're drunk off our faces. We've fucked with our own back stories here."

Looking to the ground, the assassin nodded. "I know," he allowed. "And walking out the front door isn't happening. We've got dozens of men outside the building."

"And we've got dozens inside it too."

Bucky lifted his eyes, staring down the features looking at him hopefully and almost fearfully. Her hands were tied together, fingers dancing around one another as she wrung her hands nervously, and he felt something in his chest crack when she let out a shuddering breath. The doctor was good at hiding it, but the frightened nerves were beginning to win the battle for her lips, tugging them down instead of letting them smile. She was scared – but whether it was for herself, or for him, he wasn't sure.

A choked sound echoed. "Buck, they're gonna be here in twenty minutes! They'll find you!"

Maybe it _was_ for him then? He blinked at that, watching the hopeful shade in her eyes turn desperate before she turned away, hands shooting out to uselessly lock the door. It wouldn't help. The men would have battering rams.

"As cliché as this is, do you think you'll fit under the bed? Or do you think they'd look there? What if, when they come, you hang from the window like some… I don't know, some spider assassin, or spider boy or something? You can do that right? How hard can it be? Just hold onto the sill with your fingers and stay there for the unknown amount of time it takes them to check my room. Okay, shit, doesn't sound good when I say it like that."

She was all frayed nerves and flashing eyes as she flitted about the room, checking the space under the bed and the world beyond their window. This was the woman that, less than an hour ago, he'd been calling himself stupid for trusting. The woman that, _less than an hour ago,_ he'd been certain had betrayed him. The woman he'd kissed, the woman he'd let touch him, the woman who'd cared from minute one.

"Okay, genius idea. I'm a plastic surgeon right? I do literal bone restructure procedures on some people, so I could – no, shit, twenty minutes. I'm a doctor not a miracle worker. And I don't exactly have any equipment with me. Also, your face is _really_ nice how it is."

 _The woman who cared._

Bucky set his lips into a firm line, silver fingers clenching into a deadly fist. "I'll lead them away."

Across the room, Samara stiffened. "You'll lead…" Her eyes snapped to his person. "No, uh, no you won't. That could be – that could be dangerous! You could get hurt! You might fall or, or get shot! You might – "

"Samara."

" – the Captain might grab you! You might get knocked out if he throws his shield at you! Ultimate Frisbee is harder than you think! And – "

"Sam."

" – You might hurt somebody else! Not that that's super-duper important, but you never know! You might hurt someone who has a family! Or – "

"Sammy!"

" _You might not come back."_

Bucky started at the defeated words and tone, watching the woman age twenty years in the space of second. Her shoulders slowly hunched up, hiding her features in a protective gesture he knew rather well. It was how he'd hidden from her in the beginning. Moving closer, he cupped her neck, clearing his throat against the sudden surge of sentimentality. "I'll lead them on a goose chase, okay?" he murmured. "Maybe pretend to jump a train. _Then_ I'll circle back here."

Her face was a blur of movement, lips shifting from a frown to a perfect circle, eyes widening then narrowing, brow lowering, cheeks twitching. But she ended it all with a sigh as she closed her eyes.

"I'll circle back here, where you'll be waiting, right?"

Samara blinked slowly, letting out another heavy breath. "Yeah, yeah I'll be waiting," she allowed. "But when… when you come back, I think we need to talk. We need to sort… need to sort out whatever…"

 _We need to sort out whatever_ we _are…_

"Deal," Bucky promised, hesitating before bending to kiss her brow. "We've wasted enough time. They'll be here any minute. I'm going to the roof, might play with them from there. Hopefully they follow me – I know the Captain will. He'll be the only one who can keep up," he joked lamely, swallowing when twin arms snaked around his middle in a hug.

Samara's voice was muffled in the same shirt she'd bought him close to a week ago. "Also, don't die. Or I'll defy the laws of nature to bring you back to life and then kill you myself."

He chuckled and squeezed her for a split second, half feeling like he was leaving his dame to go to the war. "Alright. Do you know how demanding you are?" he teased, shifting so he could unwind her arms. "Don't kill people. Don't get hurt. Don't die. Honestly…"

A weak slap was her only reply as he moved towards the door.

* * *

He _was_ going to come back.

He promised.

Samara bit her lip, resisting the urge to wince when the bruised flesh protested the action. She hadn't heard anything yet, no yelling, no gunfire, no thundering footsteps, but he'd only been gone a few minutes at best. Barely enough time to climb the stairs, or even let someone conveniently see him doing so. And even then, would she hear anything?

They'd probably be wild if they found him – as desperate as they are – but would they give any clues that they had? Would they all just clamber after him, foaming at the mouth like some pack of bloodhounds? Or would it only be the infamous Captain that gave chase as the rest of them hung back and barked out orders? Would he even be able to escape?

The doctor looked to the door nervously, recognizing the sound of steady footsteps coming closer and feeling her heart pound in time with every heavy thud. That was probably the good – _or were they_ _the bad?_ – guys, doing their room checks then.

Their twenty minutes were up.

Three knocks sounded, and Samara couldn't help but shrink back at the mere sound, lip falling prey to her teeth once again _._ What happened if, even with the alarm raised from Bucky being spotted, they still asked to search the room? They were expecting to see her _partner_ in the room with her – and she was alone.

 _Story of my life._

Plastering on a tired, but still bright smile, she opened the door and looked between the two men waiting in feigned shock. "Oh heya fellas," she breathed, leaning against the doorframe in a subtle attempt to block them. It wasn't the same pair as before, thank fuck, and the two faces were nothing but blurs to her eyes by now. "Is this about the…"

One of the soldiers gave a wan smile back. "Yes, sorry ma'am," he bowed his head, idly playing with the cream folder in his hands. "I need to ask you a few questions, if that's okay? I know it's early, and we hate to be an inconvenience but this is of the upmost importance."

Samara tapped her nails against the doorframe. "That's fine, no biggie," she allowed, trying another smile. "Ask away."

"Have you seen a man wandering around? Perhaps acting strange? Dressed strange?"

And wasn't _that_ the question of the morning? The doctor adopted a humoured expression, giving a practised chuckle before shrugging the question away. "Oh yeah, there's a few of them. All in black. Toting about guns and the like," she taunted weakly, now pointedly looking down at the pistols attached to their thighs. "I hope those are just _really_ expensive paintball guns you got there..."

Both men slowly looked down, one frowning while the other hurriedly cleared his throat. "Precautions," he excused, now digging about through the folder before pulling out a single photo. "I mean this man, ma'am."

And there it was.

Exactly what she was expecting.

Carefully grabbing the photo when the man thrust it out, Samara looked it over, recognizing blue eyes. "With that bone structure, I'm starting to wish I had seen him," she chuckled again, the sound meek. The photo was shiny, glossy, and showed the man who'd been breathing her air for over a week now, dressed to the nines in black leather like he'd been when they'd first met. The only difference to that night was the rifle he was carting in his metal hand. "And it's about now that I see the weapon and take that back…"

The first man sniggered, continuing the trend of being the only one to speak as he nodded in apparent agreement. "Looks pretty, doesn't he?" he mocked, flipping the folder and opening it again. "It's a real shame he'd sooner kill you with the rifle then take you out for a pint."

"Well, you know the saying," she murmured back. "Looks can kill."

The folder was lifted and opened. "The Winter Soldier," was announced, and she almost thought he was expecting her to gasp or faint at the name. "Is credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years."

Samara felt her heart drop to her feet, the once erratic pounding slowing to a dangerous pace. "Sounds like a ghost story," she choked out, eyes hurrying over the list of crimes. It seemed endless. "He doesn't look a day over twenty five, but you expect me to believe he's been out there for over fifty years? And, it might just be me, but I swear I've seen his face before…"

 _Rambling when nervous? Classic._

The soldier frowned, shifting on his feet before he shrugged. "The recent information leaked from SHIELD, have you seen it? He was included in said information. You probably saw his face then."

The doctor narrowed her eyes. "No. I don't have any interest in that," she murmured, pointedly meeting the man's eye. "I don't know where I saw his face, _but_ I am pretty sure I saw Captain America downstairs before. What's he doing here? Shouldn't he be cleaning up the DC mess, not chasing after ghosts?"

"Ma'am, I don't know if I was clear about this but – "

The radio strapped to the man's chest screamed out static. _"We've got him! Shit he's on the roof, I'm looking right at him! Alpha team, head west, he's on the rooftops!"_ All three of them stiffened, unmoving as gunfire sounded. _"Shit, hold your fire! We need more men up here. He just wiped out half my squad! Damn it, Barnes is moving west, someone copy."_

Samara blinked once. "Barnes, huh? You might wanna get that."

The man snatched back the folder, but let her keep the photo, already sprinting towards the stairs with his gear comically jumping about on his body. They disappeared into the stairwell about the same time the doctor vanished behind a slammed door.

Samara slid to the ground, something dangerously close to horror draining the blood from her features. _Credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years._ He was a murderer? No, no, she _knew_ that, knew he'd done bad things at some point, but…

But he was the bad guy?

That – that wasn't _right_. Her eyes stung, burning with the threat of tears as she took in the photo crumpling and ripping beneath her hands. There was a weapon in his hands for god's sake, but she was still denying it?

"Fuck," Samara whispered, head hitting the door with a sickening sound. "Fuck, what have you done, Sammy?"

* * *

He could hear them panting at his heels, almost too close for comfort, but he let them keep up – going so far as to slow his pace when he lost them around a corner. They weren't too far from the hotel now, maybe the odd few blocks, but he wanted more. Enough that they wouldn't come back and bother them again.

He needed time to pack his things, bustle the doctor into the car, and drive to the next city.

Bucky slowed after vaulting from the roof, landing in a roll before checking over his shoulder. He could hear the men cursing at the distance between buildings, not contemplating jumping it, and figured he had something of a head start to get to the ground. But he also figured that soon there'd be a blond head somewhere in the team of black…

Turning, he busted the lock on the door behind him, pushing into the building and flying down the stairs. He had maybe a few minutes more before the Captain – _Steve –_ joined in on the chase. Then he'd have to speed up, push himself to further the distance between them before the blond managed to snag him.

"Buck!"

He staggered on the next step, almost falling at the new voice, before he peered up the stair well. There it was – a blond head and a pair of hopeful blue eyes. "Steve…" he murmured back, too quiet to be heard.

The super soldier looked down to him and they both stood in silence, suspended for a few seconds in a separate reality. But it couldn't last, and the assassin noticed the shine of metal attached to a strong arm, the glint of red and blue paint, and snapped back into the real world. Grabbing the railing, he tore it from the concrete and vaulted down a few flights, only breathing easier when it became harder to see the blond. He could hear the man shouting behind him, but continued finding new ones to get down the taller building.

Free falling was fun until he had to grab the edge of concrete to stop himself, and felt something _tear_ in his shoulder. "Ah!" Bucky slammed his eyes shut at the surge of pain. "Damn it…"

Pulling his body over the railing, he slumped against the wall for little more than a second before he voted to just leap down the remaining flights. If he broke, cut, lost _anything_ , or even got so much as a papercut, the good doctor would probably kill him. And enjoy it a hell of a lot more than he would too, without a doubt.

 _Also, don't die. Or I'll defy the laws of nature to bring you back to life and then kill you myself._

"Bucky, please! Just wait!"

And damn it, was the man still on his tail? Bucky checked quickly over his shoulder as he emerged into the new building. It took him a few seconds to realise it must have been a business of some sort, a rich lobby greeting him with marble floorings and water features, and the bubbling liquid almost made him pause – their visit to the falls flashing behind his eyes in different shades of blue and white.

He swallowed and shook it away, moving towards the door as quickly as he could. If he led the blond into the subway stations, he could probably lose him in the early rush of people going to work. It would be easy, pretend he got on a train and just –

Bucky flew back when the front door of the building exploded, glass flying every which way as he dived behind the front counter. "What the hell?" he yelled into the fray, peering around the wooden structure.

Red and golden armour marched through the now gaping hole, glowing eyes looking over the abandoned lobby.

The assassin felt his lips go slack. "What the fuck?" he whispered, ducking low when blue shone his way. The armour appeared to be in the shape of a man, and it shifted in the same mannerisms he'd expect a person too, but there was a glowing shape playing at replacing its heart. He narrowed his eyes at the sight, filing away the information as a possible weak spot.

Then the mask lifted.

And okay, so it _was_ a man?

"Captain," the man behind the mask looked vaguely familiar, his features set in determination.

The blond emerged next, popping out of the stairwell with a heaving chest. "Tony?" he panted, licking his lips as he looked over the settling dust. "What the… Was this really necessary?"

Taking advantage of the conversation, Bucky slipped out into the shadows, slinking around the nearest corner. He'd get out through a back window or something. This was quickly turning into a situation where he might have to fight, and with that glowing suit of mechanical armour, he felt the odds of him coming out as the victor dwindling rather rapidly. He'd rather lose his pride and be called a coward for running then lose his ass in a fight.

"I was hoping to shock him, or something?" _Tony_ muttered back. "I don't know?"

"Stark…"

Bucky blinked, startled at the new name. _Howard?_ Almost instantly, the name caused a flood of confusion to crash through his mind. Whatever had pulled up the title was gone, leaving him to ponder about where and how he knew it.

 _Wait_ , back in the museum… the one that said he knew the blond… wasn't there something about a Carter and a Stark?

Looking back up – and making the mental note to write both names in his journal – he suddenly realised where he'd seen the man before. It was the same one Samara had crashed into earlier that evening, before everything had gone to shit. The same man who made her look chest fallen both during the incident and afterwards as she recounted it for his ears.

Bucky narrowed his eyes, the desire to leave waning. _Looks like we're getting a fight after all…_

"Just scan or something? Find him that way, he can't have gotten that far, could he?" the Captain was waving both hands, gesturing uselessly to the suit and then to the area around them. "Don't you have some weird life detector thingy in that?"

If he used the shield against the blond, got him out of the picture for a few minutes, he could warn the Stark character against touching _his_ doctor and then disappear through the lovely gaping hole in side of the building. All before the backup arrived. There; a plan if he ever did see one.

"You're so pushy," Stark snorted. "Alright, alright, Jarvis? Do you mind?"

Bucky crouched, eyeing up the shield and the grip that held it.

" _Life signs eight feet away sir."_

"What?" Stark squawked at the announcement. "He's right bloody there, holy shit – "

And that was his cue.

Shooting out, the assassin managed a firm grip on the edge of the shield with his flesh hand, using the silver fingers to deliver a solid punch to the centre of a broad chest. He could feel the breath the blond lost, the man gasping and rustling through the brown bangs as he staggered backwards. Not willing to devote too much of his time to the lesser threat, he kicked said chest next, sending the body flying a good ten feet back before he turned to face the metal man.

The face plate was still up, but it snapped down and both hands lifted with their – _fucking glowing? –_ palms up. Bucky swore under his breath and raised the shield, feeling something bounce back and hum in his ears at deafening volume. He didn't know what attack had been dealt, but frankly, he didn't _want too._

Lowering the shield when the strange sound stopped, he hesitated for a split second before diving in, kicking the back of the man's knees. Thankfully, he crumpled forward, and the assassin used the shield to get him all the way to the ground – smashing the back of a metal head without holding back any strength. If the suit hadn't been there, then neither would the man's skull.

When the suit collapsed, Bucky dropped, throwing all his weight onto the glowing blue circle. Panting, he tapped once on the mask. "Up."

The man growled back. _"Not happening."_

Licking his teeth, Bucky nodded. "Alright," he allowed, using the shield to smash the face plate once. He could hear the blond soldier groaning across the room, kicking back to his feet. "Alright, you can listen then. If you touch Sam again, Stark, I'll rip out the sorry excuse for a spine you inherited from your father."

The suit spasmed. _"What did you say?"_

"You heard me." Hiking up the shield, he turned and threw it at the oncoming body, the blond dodging it before diving to tackle him from the fallen suit. Bucky grunted when he hit the ground, breath gone, but used silver fingers to squeeze the straining tendons in the soldier's neck, slowing rising back up with the action and sending the man backwards.

The strength he was fighting against made him panic for a second, worried he was bested – _he said he'd come back_ – but soon someone was tugging back on the body and he lost his grip in confusion. Kicking and screaming somewhat, the soldier was dragged from him, and standing behind him the metal suit appeared to be supporting his weight. _"Steve stop, he recognizes me!"_

The soldier stopped struggling, going limp in the space of a heartbeat. "Buck?"

He looked between them both, chest heaving. How could one man look so painfully hopeful, and how could a suit display more honest emotion than the people who dared smiled his way? Bucky swallowed, pushing to his feet at a slowed pace. "Stop trying to catch me."

The blond's features contorted. "Buck, I promise nothing will happen to you we just – "

"Steve." The name fell easily from his lips, and he hated it. " _Stop_."

He backed away with the words, half expecting to be grabbed, but the blond and his armoured guard just watched him hopelessly. The emotive blue eyes followed him every step of the way, but the shield was never picked up as he ran, darting through the hallways before smashing through a window at the back of the building.

His heart was aching. And not in the same way it had when Samara had turned desperate eyes on him earlier that hour, begging him not to get hurt, but in a…

He couldn't name it, damn it, but it _hurt_.

There was no doubt about it now at least, he realised, picking up a slow jog through back alleys. That blond man _knew_ him, intimately so, and that meant he did know him back. The dreams, the ones with snow covered mountains and a gaudy blue suit, were real. They weren't manifestations of his tired and hopeful mind. They were recovered memories.

Bucky slowed slightly when he heard sirens, hiding in darkened corners as vans sped past. The sight made him pause, checking over his shoulder for a tail. Would the Captain heed his warning or would he keep chasing?

 _Steve's too stubborn, the little punk. He'll be back._

He almost smiled at the thought, the words laced with something akin to exasperated fondness, but smothered it when the hotel came back into view. Because _now_ he had to get back in.

Fuck.

Tipping his head back in exhaustion, he decided to just go with the flow and waltzed right through the front door, chin held high. There were no vans painting the pavement anymore, and the man behind the counter just gave him a terrified smile as he stalked past him towards the elevators. He knew his metal arm was on display, but nothing was said between them, and he bared his teeth back to the steward as the doors shut in a childish display.

They had a head start, he figured. At least a few days before the hunt was back on. Before Steve came after him again.

The elevators chimed, and he sighed, pushing out onto their level and back towards his room. "Sammy?" he knocked on the door, leaning his forehead against it for a few seconds. "It's me."

The door creaked open and he stumbled through, suddenly tired. "You're back sooner than I expected."

Bucky hesitated, the bland tone managing to wake him up and send something similar to ice down his back. Blinking back a yawn, he locked gazes with the woman, almost wanting to blanch at the cold irises. "Samara…"

The woman made a noise, locking the door before brushing past him. She didn't say anything more, and just wandered back into the small kitchenette, stirring a cup of something warm and distinctively chocolatey. He waited, impatiently, for her to find whatever words she was searching for, but instead she sipped at the mug and refused to look his way.

"Samara?" he tried again. "Sammy…"

The doctor flinched. "If you haven't noticed _Barnes,_ I'm giving you the cold shoulder," she announced, voice still nothing more than a drone. Absently, a small voice in his mind noted that this was one of the first times she'd looked at him with something other than a smile. "Or, maybe more accurately, I'm giving you the _Winter Shoulder."_

Bucky physically recoiled from the title, almost collapsing onto the couch when his knees hit the arm. "You…"

Samara reached behind her without breaking eye contact, slamming a sheet of paper onto the counter. He shifted forward, seeing a photo of his own features and his old rifle. "Do you think you could sign it for me, mister?" she mocked, giving him a strained grin. "Maybe a nice little note? _Dear Samara, don't give up on your dreams. If I can murder a president, you can do anything!_ Oh no, actually…" She clicked her fingers his way, now throwing her phone on the counter. "How about a list of your _other_ crimes?"

The smaller screen showed a bunch of gibberish, but some of the words made sense. "You decrypted this? I thought SHIELD took it all down…"

"Oh I didn't decrypt any of it. But some other loser out there, sitting in his mum's basement did," Samara countered, and she yanked the phone back, fingers flying across the screen. When she turned it back to him, it displayed large numbers that he recognized enough to tear down whatever was left of his hope.

 _911_

"Give me one good reason."

Bucky opened his mouth, hoping to have something to say as reply to the question. She wanted a reason as to why she shouldn't call the same men he'd spent the past hour running from? Okay, then maybe a threat would do? Maybe the fact that he could have her against the wall before she even pressed the call button would be reason enough?

Or maybe, just maybe, he could point out that there'd been _something_ in that elevator. That he wasn't insane, that she'd been there, she'd felt it, and she'd _kissed back._

Steeling himself, Bucky opened his mouth again…

But nothing came out.

* * *

 **Yes, yes, you all hate me. I know. I hate me too. I suck. I'm a terrible person. Anyway, if there are a bunch of mistakes I am sorry but dudes, I had a huge day and it's a little past eleven now. Seriously, guys, I'm beyond exhausted.**

 **But I love you, so I had to get this out for you.**

 **Also fuck, another seven thousand word chapter?**

 **Taila xx**


	21. Talk it out

Was he shrugging _?_

Christ on a cracker, he _was_ …

Samara blinked; thumb still hovering above the call button on her phone, and eyes carefully watching the assassin across the room grow pale. It was almost strangely captivating – watching usually tanned skin whiten until the man looked sickly, his bright blue eyes the only shock of colour on his features.

Captivating or not, it was still turning her stomach to rot. The longer she watched, observing how his cheeks lost their slight flush and his lips were drained of their light red hue, the further her heart sunk. And the question, the words she'd forced from her mouth minutes ago, were still hanging between them, haunting and eerie in the silence.

She was beginning to think he didn't have an answer.

 _I almost feel like I'm watching a kitten struggle to get out of a box?_ Samara couldn't help but wince when the man started gnawing on his lower lip, drawing blood with blunt teeth. She knew how much that could hurt. _Damn it, I want to laugh but at the same time all I want to do is help him._

Sighing, she went with the _help_ option – if she laughed now, survival wasn't happening – and pointedly cleared her throat, wiggling the phone to bring his focus back. It took him a few seconds, her endless patience running thin, but the movement must have caught his attention; entire body starting back like she'd frightened him.

"I don't have a reason," Bucky croaked out, slumping down as he stared stubbornly at her hand. The feverish hue to his eyes was almost calculating, studying, like he was trying to figure out how long it would take to reach out and snatch it up. Her fingers tightened in response, and the blue disappeared under closed lids. "I have nothing to stop you from calling them."

 _I knew it…_

The doctor swallowed thickly, hoping to dislodge the lump of hurt in her throat. "You've killed people," she accused quietly, snapping her teeth together once she'd spoken. The numbing pain dancing through her jaw was the only thing stopping her from screaming, from pounding on his chest and throwing things across the room like a child. "Lots of people."

Bucky managed to startle them both by throwing his head back, tainted laughter escaping from his lips. "Oh, please, like you didn't _know_ ," he spat out, and the weakness faded as he straightened up. "Look me in the eye and tell me you honestly thought I was one of the good guys."

Samara tried to hold his gaze, to level back a glare, but there was something manic swirling in the crystalline orbs, something that made her gut churn uneasily. "I can't do that," she admitted, settling for glaring at his chin instead. There were a few odd drops of blood flecked out against his collarbones, messily artistic like paint on a canvas. "I actually liked to pretend I didn't know."

Was that someone else's blood, or was it his? Her fingers itched to check, to make sure his skin hadn't been broken, but she only stared.

Across from her, the assassin slowly cocked his head, eyes narrowing into slits as he looked her up and down. "Really?" he taunted, sounding almost shocked. "What the fuck do you think this is then, _Sammy?_ A road trip between two great buddies?"

"Again, I liked to pretend that it was, yes," she bit out, throat aching as she stared over his shoulder and out the window. "I liked to _hope_ , alright?"

The sun was starting to rise, the red sheen slowly crawling along the carpeted floor. The colour would reach them soon, would shine from the silver arm and dot crimson over the walls like a twisted reflection. It would be her choice whether she thought it looked beautiful, or whether she thought it was something that needed to be taken apart.

Luckily, she had a few more minutes before the sun hit them.

Bucky laughed again, holding his stomach with shining metal digits. "Oh, aren't you just adorable," he growled, stalking away to one end of the room. It almost looked like he was about to lock himself away in the bedroom, but he spun on his heel, beginning to prowl the length of the lounge instead in an endless track. "I walked into your house with a _knife._ I threatened you. I strangled you. I hurt you. And now? Now I've essentially kidnapped you. But it's okay because we're friends right?"

Tearing her eyes away from the window, she saw that the same manic glare was now pinned on her, holding her in place better than ropes or chains ever could. The lost and paling look from before was missing however, and now the blue was darkened by something the assassin thought he could rely on, something he thought would never fail him.

 _Anger._

The doctor flinched back from the emotion, hoping to hide the action by lifting her mug to her lips. "I came along willingly," she pointed out, eyes tracking his movements and waiting for him to break the pattern. It was like watching a wild animal slowly closing in, every paced line bringing his body closer to her corner of the room.

"Willingly…" the brunet tasted the word, footsteps slowing. "What else have you done _willingly?"_

The question was pointed, and her mind flashed back to the elevator, to the feeling of warmth on her lips and a strong grip holding her thighs. Blinking the images away, she replaced them with the memory of the same grip, but this time tangled around her neck. "I don't know," Samara feigned a confused frown, unable to help but keep her chin down. It felt safer if she couldn't see him. "I don't know, I bought you pancakes willingly? Shared a bed with you willingly? Stayed up all night because you'd left _not so willingly?"_

Bucky's laughter shifted from a bitter rumble to a low, dark chuckle. "Come on Sammy, what did I tell you? Stop averting your eyes so much, it shows how nervous you are," he purred, taking one imposing step forward. The only thing standing between them now was a flimsy kitchen counter, but it could've been damn blast doors and offered the same amount of protection from burning eyes. "But I guess I should count my blessings, hm? At least you're not _rambling._ "

"If you haven't noticed," Samara started, voice far too loud in the sudden silence. "Rambling is a string of words. I can barely stomach the thought of saying anything to you right now. Your name included."

With the words, his eyes flashed, silver fingers clenching as his entire body seemed to twitch at once.

The threat, the realisation that now she wasn't hiding under his skirts but instead in his line of fire, made her mind go blank. This wasn't like their impromptu story time in the supermarket, or like her absent minded anger from the museum. This was real – and if she wasn't willing to be the voice of reason, then it wouldn't end with them both being on good terms.

Samara took a small breath in, softening her glare as she took a greedy swig from her cup. The liquid chocolate scalded her tongue, almost to the point where she couldn't taste it anymore, but the pain was grounding. She took another fortifying sip. "Could you please tell me where you've been going every night?" she asked, trying to make her voice as polite as possible. "And could you please tell me if it has something to do with the arson that's happened the past two nights in the city?"

The sun was creeping closer now, nipping at the assassin's heels.

"Why is it so important to you?" Bucky demanded, teeth bared. "Why do you always have to make complications when things are going _smoothly?_ Two nights go perfectly fine, but it all goes wrong when I have to start chasing after your lost ass."

Samara felt the desire to snap back rise in her chest, but she carefully swallowed it down. "I wasn't lost, genius," she murmured, chewing over her next words. "I was bored, because someone was leaving every night and I didn't know why, or even where they went. I was worried, and I'm a stress eater, alright?"

The brunet almost looked tired at her admittance, his rage simmering down and metaphorical fuel tank on empty. The weakness lasted all of three seconds however, and soon the fire was back. "Worried? That's cute."

"How? When I'm worried I hover – it's unattractive."

Bucky's brow came together, eyes flicking between her own. "You're lying."

"Sadly, I'm really not. It's gross. I just get worried, maybe not easily, but afterwards I tend to become something of a shadow to whoever worried me, you know? I'll just be there… whenever you turn around... spooky huh?"

The assassin tilted his head, slowly moving closer and leaning against the counter in a strained attempt at casualness. "For once in your life, can you stop making wise cracks?" he requested, voice treacherously silken. "If you want to know something, ask, but don't hide behind sarcasm."

Samara opened her mouth, comment already sitting on her tongue, but the careful strength he held in shaking hands made her falter. _Someone has to be the voice of reason._ Her chest shuddered with her next breath, and she noted the sun had finally painted the room in golden and red hues. _Beautiful._

"Do you want a hot chocolate, Buck?"

"I thought I said to stop hiding behind – "

Not bothering to let the growled words continued, the doctor cut in almost warmly. "They always helped my stomach settle, you know? Mum would always make them for me when I was scared, or if I was feeling sick. Guess it kinda stuck."

The man blinked dumbly, lashes fluttering and leaving shadows on his cheeks. "So, you're scared?"

Samara hummed. "Feeling ill actually," she corrected, smiling weakly as she went to pull down another cup. "I may, uh, may have vomited when I read some of your… history." The water kettle was flicked on, and her hands ghosted about, readying the twin drinks. "Downside to stress eating? You have a lot in your stomach. Oreos don't taste as good on their way up as they do on their way down."

And there it was, the slightest hint of warmth lacing through the frustrated sapphire orbs. "Yes," the soldier allowed, nodding once and finally taking a seat at the counter. After a few beats of awkward silence, he added, "…please."

Soaking up the momentary spell of quiet, the doctor felt dread growing in her chest – for when both the silence ended, and the conversation begun. The next few minutes, hours, _whatever_ , it wasn't going to be entertaining. It wasn't going to be a joke. It was serious. It was real. It was happening.

Bucky shifted behind her, and a fleck of light reflected from the panels on his silver arm, glancing out onto the walls.

Watching the colour dance, she took a deep breath in. "Hey, Buck? Am I gonna like what I'm about to hear?" she whispered, staring down the reflection as she slowly stirred their drinks.

"That depends."

He must have moved again, the dancing shadow disappearing. "That depends on what?" Samara asked softly, spinning around with both mugs ready. Cradling one to her chest, she pressed the other into his hand, watching his expression to see if he could feel the burn through the metal palm.

Blue eyes hit her like a freight train. "On how you feel about…" Bucky frowned, and his brow ticked. "On our relationship, I guess is the right choice of words? It depends on how you feel about _me_ in particular."

 _It is gonna hurt then…_

"It's sad, isn't it?" Samara assumed, sucking her lower lip into her mouth.

"Very."

"Does the dog die?"

Bucky's features twisted from solemn, to confused, then finally to humoured. "I'm sorry I didn't – what?"

"Oh um, well," Samara cracked a short smile, wrinkling her nose in his direction. "I'm just taking precautions, all right? I hate movies or books when the pet dies, man. It should be against the rules. Killing animals? No, please don't. It ruins way too many good movies. Ever seen _I am Legend?_ No? Good. Don't."

The assassin did his infamously cocked brow. "No. There's no dog."

"Okay, so a cat? You can't fool me by specifying one species."

A chuckle grew into something that warmed her body, and silver fingers lifted to hide his smile. "No animal dies, I promise," Bucky swore, features sobering slightly but not completely. The remnants of humour still tickled about his lips, and the sight made her relax against the counter. "But, as you know already, a few – well, a few _humans_ do." With the words, the smile turned pained, his eyes searching her own. "Samara, I need to know – are you okay with that?"

The man stared patiently as she rocked back on her heels, lips dropping open as they waited to form words. Bucky wasn't asking if she was okay with _character death_ in his little story, he was asking if she was okay with what he'd done. If she was okay with the list of crimes she'd read.

Letting her lips curve up slightly, she tried to comfort him with a small laugh of her own. "Buck, that's…" she sighed, licking her lips before breathing out another quiet chuckle. "I don't know, not right now. I'm not going too…" Her eyes drifted to her cell phone and, pointedly, she pushed it away. "I'm not really okay with what you've done. But it's done."

He studied her for a few seconds. "Do you really know everything?"

"Uh, well, I'm pretty sure I know most of it. Or, more accurately, all of it. The files were actually pretty in depth and you'd – hey, wait, do I even wanna know why the hell someone charged you with _jaywalking?"_ Samara squawked out the question, silently proud when the man grinned her way. "You're a master assassin, but someone out there is mad you dared walk across the road without using a proper crossing?"

Bucky smacked his lips, staring down at his drink. "I was a little too eager to leave a crime scene," he admitted with a shrug. "Apparently enough to forgo using the crossing. I deserved that fine."

"You never even paid it."

The assassin made a small sound of amusement, hair brushing against his jawline when he lowered his head. It was an almost bashful action, but when words met the air, she realised he was hiding for different reasons. "I already told you I don't remember what happened. Not all of it. I fell from the train, I was in the snow, and I was taken."

Samara swallowed. "Is it amnesia? Are you blocking the memories because you don't want to remember? Do you remember everything but you're lying to me because I'm more useful if I follow you blindly?" she rambled, one hand raking through her hair and the other cutting through the air uselessly.

Her hand was grabbed, and metal digits pressed her palm against the countertop. "It's not amnesia, not technically," he decided, and the warmth of his drink lingered in the silver. "I suppose I could be blocking them – it's not like I want to remember the things I've done. And no, I'm not lying to you; you're only _useful_ if I know I can trust you. And I know trust isn't one sided, and to trust me, you need honesty. I can give you that much."

The doctor felt her lips twitch upwards.

Reaching out to tap their mugs together, she let her eyes drift to their hands. Hers was still resting on the counter, with his own covering the pale skin in silver. "Thank you."

When she heard him take the breath in, his hand giving a small squeeze, she knew. This conversation was going suck ass.

"It was a machine. I don't know who made it, but I know who they made it for," Bucky started, and his drink held all of his attention. "It would wipe me. Before and after every mission they'd stick me in, and it would wipe my mind clean like a slate. It hurt, I think? I would scream every time they strapped me down, but I'm not sure if it's because it…" he sighed, voice nothing more than a bland drone.

Hearing the lack of emotion was enough, but she couldn't bear to look up and _see_ it. She didn't have the strength left. Besides, it wasn't like her eyes were free anyhow. She was busy looking at the metal work of his arm, because really, when would she get another opportunity like this?

See... No reason to look up.

 _Arm. Arm. Arm._

"It felt like a violation. I knew they were in my mind. I knew they were…" Bucky made a sound. "They had these words too. I can't tell you them, so please don't ask. I can't remember them, but I know I _know_ them. It's like they're always on the tip of my tongue."

Samara turned her hand over, pressing her palm against silver. "You remember nothing? Seventy years, gone?"

A sigh sounded. "More or less. I don't remember the missions. I don't remember what I've done, who I was…" His brow came together to knot above confused eyes. "But I can… every now and then, things leak through. I've been writing them down. In the journal you gave me. Sometimes I might remember suddenly, just say or think it, but sometimes it comes back in my sleep. Like a dream."

Gently twining their fingers together – _slow movements so you don't startle him_ – she rested her chin on the counter, making herself appear small. "I'm happy the journal is helping."

Bucky swallowed. "You really are, aren't you?"

"Hmm?" Samara hummed back.

"You," the assassin gestured to her with his chin. "You're actually happy you're helping me aren't you?"

The doctor sat up, mouth moving soundlessly before she settled for nodding. "Yeah? I mean, it's been over a week now of constantly having you somewhere nearby. I've grown _fond,"_ she teased playfully, squeezing the fingers in her own. "I want you to be happy. Helping you does that. Sue me."

"You're not mad anymore?"

Why did he sound so _young_ then? Like a frightened child asking his mother if she still loved him, even though he'd broken her favourite vase. The gleam to his blue eyes seemed almost hopeful even. Innocently hopeful. The expression didn't seem to fit his features, but at the same time it was right at home there.

Samara smiled, simple and easy. "I'm tired," she admitted, chuckling into her cup. "But no, I think we're… I think we're good? I want to say I'm sorry for threatening you though. I just didn't think you'd listen if I didn't do something drastic, you know?"

Bucky was already nodded. "You wanted to get my attention, I understand."

"Yeah, and speaking of someone wanting your attention…" Samara lifted her brows curiously. "Did one Captain America manage to corner you? He seems to be hiding some, I don't know, like some major man pain? Almost feel bad for him. But then again, I don't know if I like him either? I mean, does he want to arrest you or save you?"

Bucky looked confused at the change in topic, but took it in stride with little more than a blink. "Save me, I think. He didn't seem to want to hurt me, or to let me get hurt," he murmured. "But that's probably because he still thinks I'm _his_ Bucky."

"You are his Bucky," Samara said lightly. "You just have a few shiny improvements."

Cue a pointedly irritated look.

The doctor rolled her eyes. "Oh stop," she muttered, smothering her smile into her arm. "Now, are we done? Is there anything else I should be knowing? Anything that might help me should the men in blue return? Or, you know, a random fact about you? I don't even know what your favourite colour is."

The man played with his mug, circling a finger around the rim while the contents were practically untouched. It took him a few seconds to gather his thoughts, to put what he wanted to say into words, but he managed. "HYDRA. The people who did all of this to me are called HYDRA. You probably read about them in the museum? They were inside SHIELD all along, had been growing since day one, like a damn parasite. So Steve took it down. That's what happened in Washington."

Samara blinked.

"Oh. Oh, okay that's rather, uh… that's that, so uh, why were you there?" she asked brightly, somehow managing to keep up with the smile and content façade. Underneath the curve to her lips, she was exhausted. "Also how were you even there? I get that they wiped you, so I'm not asking about your memories here, I'm just asking about your complexion. You don't look the odd ninety years you are. What's your secret?"

Bucky seemed to realise where the ramble was heading, cutting her short with a muted chortled. "Cyro. Hence the name."

"So…" Samara sniggered, idly tapping the nails of her free hand on the counter. "So, _winter storage?"_

"Don't start with me."

The doctor held up their joined hands in surrender, the chuckle still bubbling up from her throat. "Sorry, I'm sorry," she gushed, grinning down at the counter. "Don't give me that damn look, mister. That…"

"Please don't."

"… that _winter smoulder."_

Bucky looked exasperated, eyes narrowed in confusion and cheeks puffed up. "You do remember the part about me being an assassin right?" he asked slowly, glancing at their hands before quickly looking back to his cup. Shaking his head, he took his first sip, and the look in his eyes was worth the past hour of constant gnawing guilt and the urge to be sick. Bright blue jewels danceds her way, the man almost childlike as he took a heartier mouthful. "Wow…"

"Hot chocolate," Samara bragged, taking a risk and lifting his silver hand, brushing her lips over the knuckle. "My favourite. I'd say it even trumps coffee."

The assassin watched her in silence, a hum leaving his throat. "Trumps coffee? My, my what is the world coming too?" he murmured, clearing his throat. "By the by, I think you've might've been right. Chocolate and milk? So damn perfect, I can't breathe."

"You can't breathe because you're drinking that too fast," she scolded. "Slow down before you suffocate or drown or something!"

Bucky gave her an indulgent smile, and her stomach flipped and her heart tripped at the sight. He'd done bad things. She had more than just written documents proving it too, she had his honest word stating what he'd done. She had it all, had the grounds and the means to pick up the phone and make one call.

But she hadn't that first morning they'd met, and she wasn't going to now.

She was probably an idiot, actually. Pressing another kiss to his knuckles, she nodded. _That was probably it._

That morning, when he'd passed out on the floor of her office, she should've called it in. It would've saved her a lot of heartbreak and trouble honestly – money too now that she thought about it. But she didn't, she didn't call because her sense of morals had been born from having everything but wanting nothing, because she couldn't condemn someone without a reason. And yeah, maybe to some, breaking and entering was reason enough, but it wasn't to her. Doing bad things didn't always make you a bad person.

Her mother had taught her that…

"It _was_ red."

Samara's head snapped up, eyes glazed but focusing on the lazy smile surrounded by chocolate. _A damn milk moustache, how cute._ Seeing he had her attention, the smile widened and he gave a limp shrug. "Huh?"

"It was red, my favourite colour," Bucky elaborated. "But then, with the star on my shoulder, and… I have a new one anyway."

Her eyes drifted up silver to settle on the metal shoulder, taking in the splash of crimson. "You have a new one?" she echoed, idly realising she was warm. It was either the sun, or his smile, she wasn't sure.

"Gold. Like sunlight shining through a decanter of whiskey and scotch. That shade. Sometimes…" Bucky smiled over at her, tapping his bronze fingers against the counter. Sunlight danced over the skin. "Sometimes, if you watch the sunrise or the sunset, you can see it for a few seconds. Like a flash of gold before it's gone. I like it."

Samara smiled back, snorting. "Well, aren't you sappy?" she cooed, using her nails to create a beat on silver. "Why that colour?"

"I honestly couldn't tell you."

* * *

The smell of smoke was lingering in his hair.

Every now and then it would hit him, like a slap to the face if he turned his head just so, bringing him back from his thoughts and slamming him back into a harsh reality. He'd be thinking about the flash of recognition in blue eyes when soot would leak through, and suddenly he'd notice that he wasn't alone in the room, that people were talking around him.

That he didn't have his best friend back yet.

Tony however, managed to distract him, an elongated groan sounding through the air. "I feel like I've head butted a brick wall," he complained, slumping forward and running a hand over the back of his neck. There was a decently impressive bruise painting his cheek, staining the tanned skin a dark purple, and the same colour appeared to be leaking from his hairline, darkening the width of his shoulders. "Or, more accurately, a brick wall hit me with a vibranium shield. How did he do so much damage _through_ the suit?"

"Because he's secretly the _winter magician_ ," Natasha muttered, one hand flitting through her hair, pale skin a stark contrast to the red locks. "So, maybe next time you have him on the ropes, you could ask him to pull a rabbit out of a hat rather than _let him escape."_

Steve sighed heavily. "Natasha…"

The female assassin almost appeared chastised at the words, her eyes flicking away. "Sorry," she managed, swallowing down what was no doubt the remains of her pride. "But come on Steve, why did you let him leave? You had him!"

"Actually he had me," Tony corrected pointedly. "On the ground. I have bruises to prove it should you not believe me."

All eyes roamed over the damage on his features, some looking away hurriedly while some lingered almost sadly over the discolouration. The infamous soldier was one who couldn't seem to tear his stare away, feeling something eerily similar to guilt slam into his chest whenever light hit the bruise.

"I'm sorry," Steve mumbled, wincing when the man's head snapped in his direction. He could read confusion but spoke up before the genius had a chance to crack a joke. "I took longer than I should've to get back up. I just needed… I needed the time to…"

Tony was beside him in an instant, hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. Gave us some information," he pointed out, wrinkling his nose before grimacing when the action disrupted the purple splotch. "Okay no, ouch, facial expressions are out."

Natasha smile was soft. "You'll be okay," she allowed, before taking a deep breath in. "Now, what information do you mean?"

"I think he had a companion, a buddy old pal, a partner in crime," Tony listed dramatically, one hand still covering the blue shirt the blond wore while the other cautiously probed around his features. "Not because I saw anyone or anything, but because he kinda, might've, actually told me."

Steve lifted a brow. "I heard," he admitted. "Sam wasn't it?"

Across the room, Wilson made an annoyed sound. "Huh? Why is the _winter wonderman_ mentioning me?"

"Not you. And don't try copy my nickname thing. It doesn't work when you do it," Tony argued, brow coming together again as he looked at the man huddled on the couch.

Sam made another sound back, still clearly annoyed, before he stuck his nose back into the magazine he'd commandeered from the table. The blond gave him five minutes before he was peering over the edge of the paper in interest. He'd been trying to act pissed since they called for help, annoyed he hadn't been invited out on the midnight stake out.

It was comical now, but it was going to get old _really_ quickly.

"He said not to touch them again," Steve voiced into the silence, looking away from his other teammate and back to the room at large. "Which means you've apparently come into contact with them before right?"

Tony blinked at him owlishly. "You do know I went to a pressconference yesterday afternoon right? To help cover your guys butts with my wise words of wisdom," he mocked playfully, winking in the direction of a certain red head. The woman gave a sigh in response, but her lips curved upwards. "Anyway, I came into contact with literally half the people on the planet. Any one of them could've been this Sam guy for all we know."

Blue eyes squeezed shut. "Damn it," Steve muttered, bracing his hands against the table. "No, no, something had to have happened. Did anyone come at you? Did you run into someone? Hit someone?"

"Hit someone? What, no, there was nothing…" Tony frowned. "Why do you think something happened?"

The super soldier hummed. "He was being protective. I'd know."

Looking down, he could almost see the wheels turning behind brown eyes. "I, uh, well…" Tony licked his lips. "I think there was this one guy? He wanted an autograph a little _too_ badly. Security got him. But come on, why would snowflake be siding with someone who's technically sided with me by being a fan?"

Steve shrugged. "Don't ask me," he sighed, running a hand through his hair before nodded. "Okay, so we know he's got a partner then? Jarvis, look through the hotel records. Look out for a Sam, maybe even a Samuel. We don't know his full name just yet."

" _Of course, Captain Rogers."_

Silence fell again.

They had something. It wasn't Bucky, but it was something that could lead to him. He had a name, someone to connect his best friend too – and if he had that, he had the means to find him, and maybe find the alias he's been hiding under. If they found that, and if they found how things like the hotel was being paid for, then they could track him.

Steve smiled lightly.

 _I'm coming Buck._

* * *

 **Okay, so I missed last week…**

 **I'm really sorry, but something came up and I couldn't write. It wasn't that I didn't have the time, it was that I didn't really have the mind set to sit down and write something I think is worth reading.**

 **But it's okay now :) I'm back guys, and I'm better than ever. I'm writing this surrounded by friends – we're watching and hating on the twilight saga hah, I mean it's not like I have two stories in that fandom right? – and I've never been so happy. Things are falling together, you know? I'm loving it.**

 **Taila xx**


	22. Into the fray

It was almost perfect.

A _domestic daydream_ , for lack of a better term.

Bucky could hear the woman moving behind him, humming under her breath as she packed the last of their belongings, and cleaning the room _just_ enough for it to be considered polite. He could still smell the sweeter scent of her cooking, the chocolate sauce and maple syrup mixing pleasantly with the spicy edge of her perfume and the city air leaking through the open window.

The familiar scents and sounds made him oddly warm, strangely safe.

Completely happy.

He could vaguely remember being told what the _idle dream_ was; could remember it included a beautiful woman beside him, a humble home around him, and a purpose in his every day. Back in the days, where times was spent with a small blond male and countless dames – he'd always get the older folks pinching his cheeks, grinning up at him with familiar toothy looks.

They'd tell him he was a looker, that he had smarts, that he'd go far one day. They'd always say they couldn't wait for him to introduce them to the one he was going to marry, how one day he'd walk up to them with a small body in his arms and a smile that bragged about the gorgeous child he'd created.

He would always laugh back, lips parting to say something to appease them…

"Alrightly then, that's us!" Samara declared, breaking the train of thought with a hand on his shoulder. "I'm ready to go whenever you are – not that I'm in the know about the _where_ we're going. You've been nothing but cryptic about where we're heading all morning. Been all, um, well you know, insert a _winter something_ joke here. I'm too tired to come up with it on my own."

Bucky chuckled lightly as she dropped down next to him, absently placing the leather bound book on the table. "You're tired?" he pushed, reaching out for cheap plastic instead. There was the odd loose leaf of paper sticking out of the plain book, and he tugged on a few, knowing he'd circled a name _somewhere_ in the files.

The doctor made a noise back at him, almost scandalized. "I'm running on about _three hours_ here, Bucko _._ I've had more cups of coffee than I've had hours of shut eye. How sad is that?" she murmured, before blinking over at him. "Anyway, yes I'm tired."

"I've had more cups of hot chocolate than I've had hours of sleep," he argued, brow coming together as he read over a sheet of paper.

"You've have six cups, your argument is invalid."

Bucky made a sound to appease the woman, instead staring down at the writing in his hands and leaving her to her one sided conversation. Every night, before burning the places down, he'd gone through the files in each safe house. He'd stolen the odd few, mostly ones revolving around codes or other locations, but there had been some he'd taken to save his own ass – ones with his name plastered over them – and also ones he'd pinched to nip the notion of them regrouping in the bud.

While there may not have been many of the slippery bastards left – the agents struggling to hide from both him _and_ the government – there was more than enough of them to rebuild.

 _Cut off one head, and two more shall take its place…_

A weight settled against his side, and without thought he shifted to accommodate the woman, not minding when she peeked over his shoulder. "Where the hell did you get all of these?" Samara snorted, one hand floating up to poke at the edges of the paper. "Your little midnight runs?"

The words made his cheek twitch in slight irritation, a sigh tearing away from his lips. He knew she wasn't _demanding_ an answer, instead giving him space to play with his reply; letting him choose between being vague, or someone more detailed and honest – but he almost wished she was. If she didn't give him an option, he didn't have to play chicken with his guilt.

Bucky swallowed, passing her the paper and moving onto the next. "I stole them from the safe houses," he muttered, skimming over the information but paying more attention to the woman. "There were three in the city. I emptied them out."

"And you set them on fire."

He felt his lips quirk up, catching the undertone of amusement. "And I set them on fire," he confirmed. "Smoke would destroy any evidence, and any remaining files I didn't take with me. I had also hoped it would damage the bodies enough for dental records to be needed – slow down the identification process."

The brunette was warm against his side, heat leeching through the thin shirt and burning along the length of his arm. "You didn't want the people to be identified quickly," she nodded in understanding, bored with the paper and reaching out for his memories instead. Her movements were slowed, like she was waiting to be stopped, but he let her pick the leather bound book up. "Why?"

"I didn't want the good Captain and his friends to put two and two together," Bucky admitted with a short shrug, watching her thumb through the book. "If they were identified, people would realise they were in SHIELD originally. But then, looking at their sudden disappearances and the location and state of the bodies – it would be easy for them to deduce who they really worked for. I wanted it to take a few days for them to realise I was taking down the safe houses. Just in case they found them before I did."

Samara looked up from the book, staring at him through her lashes. "Well, looks like they must've," she joked lamely, wrinkling her nose. "I mean, they found you, didn't they? So did they follow you from the safe house, or use _magic_?"

Leaning back against the couch, the assassin cocked a brow. "You remember the man you bumped into?"

"Yeah, I spilled his coffee – still having nightmares."

Bucky grinned impishly. "That was one Anthony Edward Stark."

The doctor squeaked, attention torn from the notebook on her lap and now solely on his features. Something in his chest warmed. "You're shitting me right now," she breathed, lower lip getting wrecked by blunt teeth. "Oh my god, I spilt his coffee. I haven't even officially met the man and he already hates me. There goes my chance at getting an autograph, am I right?"

Chuckling, he looked down at the journal, studying the page she'd settled on with glazed eyes. It was familiar, a list of names that kept bouncing about in his head – _Howard Stark, Peggy Carter, Dum Dum Dungan, Sarah Rogers –_ but she didn't seem to recognize them like he did.

"So that's how they found us then? Because I wasn't looking where I was going?"

Bucky almost wanted to cry when she said _us_ instead of _you._

The woman continued gently turning the pages of the book, treating the paper with exaggerated care. "I feel a little bad now. I done fucked up," she murmured, spilling onto the back few pages before giggling wildly. "Oh my golly, do you actually a list of _confusing shit?_ Why are elevators on here? They go either up or down, what's so confusing about that?"

He let out an annoyed grunt. "You grew up with these things, I didn't. Leave me alone," he argued, slapping the book shut. "And no, it wasn't your fault at all, so please don't feel bad. All I was trying to say was they were already at the hotel."

Samara let him take back the leather book, simply shifting her grip to his shirt sleeve instead. It was a habit she was apparently nurturing; curling her fingers into the material of his clothing whenever her hands were empty. "So they found you _here_ then, through the hotel? You thinking the camera's then? Or maybe the name you've been using? See, I told you that _James Grant_ was too damn sentimental; get a grip on your emotions."

Bucky tried to focus on her words but occasionally her nails would scratch against his skin, the light scrape strangely distracting. "Either that or they know I'm with you…"

When the woman winced again, he berated his choice of words instantly. "So it _is_ my fault then, huh?" she muttered, free hand running through her hair while the other tightened on his sleeve. "Shit, I'm sorry Buck, I didn't even think they'd track my credit card or whatever. I'm not used to hiding from the government."

The joke fell flat, but he gave her an indulgent smile anyway, reaching out to pat the hand on his arm. "We'll test the theory," Bucky decided warmly, pushing away from the couch. "Next city, we'll use your card and name. If they come, then we know, but if they don't we'll use my name with cash instead. Process of elimination."

"Smart," the doctor praised. "So then, which city is this exactly?"

 _Oh right…_

Bucky bent slightly, sliver fingers running under the name he'd circled in black ink. "It won't be a long stay," he warned first, pushing the paper towards her. "Do you know where Chicago is?"

"Uh, yeah? I mean, once I get on the highway it won't be hard," Samara promised quickly. "So more safe houses?"

The assassin slowly shook his head, wondering how much of this he should give away, wondering if one thing could make her cross the line from willing to unwilling. Golden eyes watched him openly, waiting patiently, and at the sight he let out a drawn sigh. "No, I just – I found this," he revealed softly, gesturing to the profile the location was scribbled on. "He was a doctor who worked on the programme, high up, right under the head of the operation. I remember him…"

"Wait, he's – this guy's an American?" the woman gaped, gesturing to the file like he hadn't already read it over a dozen times.

The male doctor had been _one of them_ yes, and still was he supposed, seeing as he was hiding out in their next destination. American born and raised, but the bastard had become a traitor in his late youth – gaining a doctoring degree and then speeding across the borders until he'd found his place in the programme.

Bucky could almost remember his face, but it was like trying to look through muddy water; the man's features were blurred, and his voice was garbled, but the name was pristine in his mind. "He was one of the people who worked on my arm, and kept me healthy before, during and after cyro," he muttered, narrowing his eyes at the picture of the man. "He wasn't there when I first woke up, but he showed up later on, to help with the other…"

And it blurred about in his mind again _, damn._

Bucky clenched his teeth together. "He came later," he finished. "I can remember him during training."

"Doctor Peter Riley? He sounds like some computer generated, generic asshole," Samara grumbled, frowning at the file like it had done her grievous harm. "I don't like him."

He recognized the flash of anger in amber, could remember seeing it a few hours prior when he'd spoken about having his mind wiped and his body controlled – only then it had been paired with something similar to mourning. But there was nothing sympathetic in the irises now, not for the man they were about to visit.

Somewhere in his mind, the soldier emerged to wonder if maybe she could accompany them on the upcoming house call. It _would_ show him how loyal to him she really was…

Bucky swallowed. "How long will it take us to hit Chicago?" he demanded, bending to snatch up the file. It was shoved back in the backpack, along with his journal and any other missing pieces. "More than ten hours?"

The doctor, _his doctor not the male bastard,_ nodded along with his estimation. "Under fifteen though," she allowed, but the smile she gave him was a little troubled as she toyed with the edges of her shirt. "Why are we going to see that man? He's still alive right, is that why you wanna see him? To make him… not alive anymore?"

"I don't _want_ to see him," Bucky shrugged. "But he has some information I want – the location of someone else."

Samara didn't bother to hide the frown now, and she stood, brow coming together over confused eyes. "Okay," she murmured quietly, blinking up at him before moving across the room. "Should we sign out then? I'd say if we leave now we can get to Chicago before eleven tonight, that being the latest. Is that okay with you?"

The assassin bowed his head. "Sound perfect, Sammy," he smiled, avidly watching her own lips lift in response. Would she argue if he tried to steal another kiss? Would she push him away or press back? Clearing his throat, he wiped a hand over his mouth to kill the urge. "So, uh, does that time include pit stops?"

"Oh shit, I forgot about your endless stomach," Samara sighed. "Right, I take it back, we'll be there before _twelve_ at the latest. I wanna give myself some wiggle room. Pass me my keys would you gorgeous, then we can go."

Gorgeous?

 _Damn._

Throwing caution to the wind, he reached out to snag her waist in one hand, holding her still as he pressed his lips against her own. It was almost similar to their first kiss, bruisingly sweet, but his heart was pounding for a completely different reason, his mind not distracted by the thought of incoming enemies but instead by the slim fingers crawling up his chest.

As suddenly as he'd demanded the contact, he ended it, pulling back to breathe. "Here," he muttered hoarsely, reaching behind his body to grab her keys. "I've got our bags."

"Hmm? Oh right, real life…"

Bucky chuckled at the comment, nodding the woman ahead before grabbing the twin suitcases. He'd given into her prodding the day before, only using his backpack during _missions_ now, and instead using a plain black case to hold his growing collection of clothing and personal items. The baggage was bulky, but it almost made him feel like he was travelling the country for the sheer heck of it, instead of travelling because he was running away.

The feeling was nice, but it wouldn't last. He _was_ running from something, from multiple things in fact, and such things enjoyed catching up to him. Happiness was short lived.

"Hey hunk, you coming?"

Dark hair had lazily fallen to cover whiskey eyes, and the sight made him smile again, lips burning in memory. Short lived, but whenever it was cut down, the woman before him managed to bring it back, stronger than before.

"Yeah," Bucky hefted up the cases again. "Yeah, come on doll, let's go."

* * *

When the chunk of metal hit the wall, he was far beyond caring, not even reacting when it shattered. It wasn't the first time something had been thrown across the room anyway, and it had never come close enough to be bothersome or worrisome. Who would've thought the genius had such good aim?

Steve blinked. "I thought you said you needed that piece?"

A growl was his answer, the billionaire moving to pace the length of his room like a caged animal. "I don't need any of it. It's all useless," Tony snapped, eyes wild. "All of it is – is a bloody _waste of space_."

The blond kicked out the chair beside him, comically patting the bare surface. "Come on, sit down with me for a minute," he coaxed, cracking a small smile when the man stared uncertainly. "I have some coffee for you if you do."

Tony grunted but moved to sit down. "Fine."

"See, just take a break," Steve prompted carefully, sliding across his untouched mug. He didn't have the same taste for caffeine as the genius, but when he'd been passed the cup earlier that day he'd been too touched the man had thought of him to refuse. "It might be a little cold, but it's still coffee."

Tony nodded in agreement, sipping nosily. "Thanks," he murmured, running a hand down his features. "Sorry, I guess – I'm just a little tired, and a little frustrated."

"And probably a little sore…"

The billionaire wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, and that," he admitted. "Your war buddy sure knows how to hit."

Steve's chest ached in memory of the solid kick he'd been dealt, feeling almost like the booted foot had left a permanent dent in his skin. "I realised that too," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Aside from _bruised, tired_ and _frustrated,_ how are you feeling? And please don't bother with the whole lying thing. Doesn't work on me."

Another noisy sip, and another gusty sigh. "Steve, I just…" Tony blinked hard, not opening his eyes for a few seconds. "I didn't wanna tell everyone because we've got bigger things to worry about and…"

The blond frowned, leaning against the male in a small show of support. "Tony," he started lowly. "What's wrong?"

"We're on a break," Tony murmured randomly, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Pepper, she said this was… She thought it would be best if we didn't – if we didn't see each other, out of work of course, for a little while? I mean, it's not like I can blame her, it's not like – it's not like I'm easy but I thought…"

"Tony…"

"I feel like I barely saw her anyway," the genius continued. "And it wasn't for lack of trying, I swear. I tried too, honestly I really did. But it's like I can try and she'll find a fault anyway."

Steve winced, struggling to put together some words that could ease his friends hurt. He'd never dealt with this kind of pain before, his own relationship with Peggy never even reaching the first date, let alone the fights and making up stage. The only pain they shared was the post-war agony.

And he could still see New York haunting the man's eyes…

"Maybe…" Steve almost instantly regretted opening his mouth, chest catching when huge hopeful brown eyes looked his way. "Maybe a break isn't what you two need?

Tony's features shuttered. "Yeah, yeah I know," he sighed after a few seconds of silence. "I should – I should end it, shouldn't I? Before we both give up too much, get too deep in each other. It's the right thing to do, huh?"

Steve had never hated anything more than he hated the next few words to leave his lips. "Yes, Tony."

The billionaire made a small sound, but he nodded wildly, hands shaking as he took a small sip from his cup. "Whoo, okay, no yeah I can do that," Tony murmured, lips moving soundlessly for a few seconds, before he tried for a tired smile. "I can do that. Pep will probably be thankful I can, that I can do this for us."

"You're not going to lose her," Steve promised, reaching out to press his hand against a slim shoulder. The brunet seemed to initiate the same contact between them constantly, so he knew it was safe. "She may go a little quiet – you both will, so you can heal – but she'll be back, and you'll be back to your usual arguing selves."

Tony looked his way again, all hurt and confusion. "You think?"

"I'm saying it like I see it," Steve shrugged. "You two are too close to break over this."

The genius nodded, slowly at first but it picked up speed as he grew more determined. "Yeah, you're right. We were friends, practically siblings before this, we can go back to that."

Silence fell after that, Steve deciding to simply squeeze the flesh under his hand rather than answer. It was easier than words anyway. He had the habit of mucking up when it came to speeches and encouragement, but pouring thoughts into touch never seemed to fail him – be it a hand on someone's arm to warn them against something, or a hand on the back of a friend's neck in subtle support.

Tony finished his coffee with a final gulp, slamming the cup back down. "I don't think I can focus on the suits right now," he admitted, scrubbing both hands over his features. "Hey, uh, think we could look at your buddy's file?"

The words made his chest tighten, but he set his teeth against the fear. "Yeah, yeah I think we could."

Steve pushed to his feet, steeling his resolve as he waved the billionaire to follow behind him. The files hadn't moved from where he'd put them – still safely nestled under his pillow – and he wasn't going to move them now. He didn't know who he was trying to protect by hiding them away, be it his best friend or his own mind, but he preferred them in the one room he thought untouchable by the outside world.

"Are you inviting me into your bedroom?" Tony started teasing almost instantly, pretending to gape and swoon at the pale walls he'd designed barely months before. When the solider jumped onto the bed, searching, he let out a low whistle. "My, my, I haven't even broken things off with Pepper yet, Captain. Slow down."

Steve pulled a face. "Stop," he commanded weakly. "Come on, you said you'd help me."

Tony almost looked sly. "Help you with what exactly, mister _ninety-year-old virgin_?"

The blond dropped his pillow, both hands lifting to gesture vaguely towards the other male. "No, I mean – you said you'd help me with the file not with – I'm not a – I'm ninety not dead!"

Tony cracked up, throwing his head back into the roaring laughter. "Oh, you are too easy," he breathed, wiping the mirth from his eyes. "Oh I need to tease you like that more often. Does the blush ever end? _Ohh_ , does it go all the way down...?"

Steve took in the wiggling eyebrows and suggestive look, before he picked up another pillow and threw it towards the genius. "You're an ass," he decided grumpily, snatching up the file and thrusting it out like an offering. "This is why I was on the bed. Stop with the…" he waved a hand, "… With the innuendos, would you?"

"Your senior citizen heart can only take so much, huh?" Tony answered distractedly, already thumbing through the pages of the folder. His eyes wandered over words, skin loosing colour. "Shit, okay, you ready to dive into this?"

The question was enough to make him stiffen, eyes slipping closed. Was he ready? He'd been sitting on it for over a week now, some nights warring with his own mind and his fingers as they itched to grab the paper. Colours danced behind his lids, but they all conversed into blue.

 _Stop trying to catch me. Steve. Stop._

"Bucky needs my help," Steve announced. "If this is all I can do right now then…"

Tony smiled his way, all teeth and good intent. "Let's do this then."

* * *

 **Wow, shortest chapter I've done in a while? I know right, it's under four thousand words? I'm almost concerned. But too be fair, I don't really have the strength to read through another seven thousand word chapter, so screw that. I don't even know how I manage to make them so long. It's killing me.**

 **I would just like to thank** _ **Time Materia**_ **for all the kind words they've sent my way. You've helped me, a lot, in a way I can't explain, so thank you…**

 **Taila xx**


	23. A literal punch to the face

" _We've only got about a ten second window," Steve announced, playing around with the wire that was meant to carry them across the chasm. "You miss that window…" he shook his head. "We're bugs on a windshield."_

 _And wasn't that a pleasant visual?_

 _Bucky took a calming breath in as someone announced; "Mind the gap," beside him, not really finding solace in any of the words meeting the air. If his team thought they were helping the nerves playing with his insides by speaking up, they couldn't have been more wrong._

 _Almost as though he heard what the sniper was thinking, Dugan spoke up as well. "Better get moving bugs!"_

 _His teammates sucked._

" _Right now!"_

 _The yell bought him back to reality, and with wide eyes – and admittedly butterflies in his stomach – he watched his best friend plummet down. He tried to tell himself they'd timed this perfectly, that the blond wasn't the skinny kid who got beat up behind up diners anymore, but his mind still betrayed him with flashes of his friend falling instead._

 _He was forced to focus on something else when metal was slapped into his hand. "Don't look down," was whispered into his ear before someone pushed, sending him forward with nothing more than a hand on his back._

 _The freefall was… nice._

 _It was cold, bitingly so, but the wind was something new, something different. It whipped through his hair and burned his eyes, but he still enjoyed the few seconds he was suspended above the earthen hole. He decided right then and there, with nothing but wire and metal holding him up that when they got home – both he and the blond were going right back to that rollercoaster._

 _With the promise in mind, he smiled and let go of the bar, dropping down to the train a few seconds after the good Captain. He knew he hit the metal a little harder than the blond probably did, pain dancing up his ankles from the collision, but he managed._

 _Ground shock wasn't going to render him useless now; not when he'd survived that bastard camp with all four limbs intact._

 _Staying low as they moved across the top of the train, Bucky habitually scoped out the area, head snapping back and forth as he watched for hidden guns. It was part of being a sniper – try to find the enemy sharpshooter before they found you. But they either didn't expect someone to come at them while they were moving so fast, or they were stupid, because nobody came out._

 _It wasn't until they were safely aboard the train that he realised something was wrong._

 _Lifting his gun, he frowned at the empty cars, seeing nothing more than metal and missiles. There should've been people somewhere? Patrols, guards, some poor idiot who was bored and had decided to go for a walk?_

 _Steve walked ahead of him, one hand firmly around his shield while the other awkwardly held a gun, clearly uncomfortable with the weapon. It was almost amusing. He hated using guns, but he'd use his fists and legs without a second thought – just like he had in all those back alleys – and his greatest weapon was a shield, something designed to protect and keep safe._

 _Damn punk could be so sentimental sometimes, and –_

 _The door slammed shut._

" _Ste – " Bucky was cut short when movement sounded behind him, a group of men flooding into the room with raised weapons. "Shit," he whispered, already beginning to fire and cover his own ass. If he could just take these guys out, he could get back to the blond._

 _Hurrying to duck behind a wall of crates, he moved to shoot around them, the rifle in his hands letting out controlled bursts. He couldn't see how many guys there were, but it can't have been more than three at most. It was almost insulting. Three guys? They might as well have just sent an old woman with a pair of knitting needles._

 _Quietly pulling out his pistol, he ducked lower, noting the black body trying to sneak around the centre piece. True stealth, that was. Not sparing the time it would've taken to find the humour there, he shifted to the other wall, shooting out the entire time. Bullets came back at him and he swore, hurrying to find cover yet again._

 _After that, it was almost like a twisted game – he'd pop out, shoot twice and then duck back as the other guy popped out to take his turn. But his mother's age old saying was beginning to hold a little truth. It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt. Or in this case – until someone runs out of ammunition._

 _Bucky checked the gun over when it clicked. "Shit!"_

 _Huddling further into the corner, he heard the sharp sound of bullets hitting metal growing closer, sweat starting to hover in the hollow of this throat. He had to get out of this. He needed something to take the guy out. He needed to get to Steve and – hey…_

 _Would you look at that?_

 _The door between the carriages slid away, revealing the shining face of the blond and the matte finish of the pistol in his hands. Lifting it once to signal he was going to chuck it, Steve threw it out cleanly, checking around the corner for a split second. Almost as soon as he'd noticed the sniper catching it, he was running out, shield up to protect from the collision with a missile case._

 _Panicking at the block of metal heading his way, the man in black jerked into the walkway – and right into the next bullet._

 _Straightening up completely, Bucky moved forward. "I had him on the ropes," he defended, checking the body once as the blond panted next to him. Whatever his friend had faced in the other carriage seemed to have exhausted him._

" _I know you did," Steve allowed._

 _Before he could retort, a whine hit the air, and a rough hand was pushing at him. "Get down!" Steve cried, lifting the shield to protect them both. It wasn't fast enough however, and blue flashed, sending the man flying back and the pulse through the side of the train._

 _With the wind whipping at his uniform, Bucky picked up the shield._

" _ **Fire again. Kill him now!"**_

 _Steve was down, spread out on the floor and struggling to get back to his feet – the perfect target. Firing around the shield, the sniper advanced forward, eyes struggling to find some kind of kink in the armour of the metal monster ahead of him. He needed to distract the suited bastard, keep his attention and give the punk some time to get his bearings._

 _With a whine, the monster charged up again and shot him; hitting the shield once more and sending him flying back._

 _Time seemed to slow as his back hit the torn metal casing of the trains outer walls, something cracking before he rolled along the side. He saw the bar coming, saw his hands reaching out for it, and felt his fingers tightening in a harsh grip. When the hold stopped his descent, he felt his shoulders burn, something popping out of place._

" _Bucky!" Steve was suddenly there, mask gone and blue eyes frightened. He didn't even blink before he started forward, crawling along the length of the railings without looking away. "Hang on!"_

 _He could do that. Hang on for a few seconds – let the blond save him._

 _One of his hands slipped, and his heart fell. "Grab my hand!" Steve commanded, holding out the aforementioned appendage with hopeful eyes. Seeing the expression, Bucky nodded and steeled his nerves, biting his lip furiously as he reached out and – "No!"_

 _The railing gave way._

* * *

It took him a few seconds too long to realise he wasn't actually falling.

Despite being awake, his mind was still back in the memory – replaying the ominous feeling of the metal under his hand giving way, the feeling of a wracking cold burning through his nerve endings. Playing it over and over and _over_ until his stomach was churning, rolling with the urge to empty its contents onto the nearest surface.

It took him a few seconds too long to realise the person who was trying to touch him wasn't the enemy.

It was the gasp that brought him back from the past, that woke him up and snapped him back into reality. The startled and pained noise that sounded close to his ear before whoever had made it scrambled back to a safer distance. And there was only one person who'd dare be so close to him now, _safe distance_ be damned.

"Samara?" he croaked, blinking his eyes open and focusing on her tiny form. Was it just him or did she seem smaller than usual? When his vision cleared a little more, Bucky realised she was curled up into a ball, hands pressing against her lower face and knees protecting what her slim fingers couldn't. "What happened? I didn't – "

His hand was still clenched in a fist.

Staring down the – thankfully – flesh hand, he felt his stomach drop. _I didn't, please god tell me I didn't._ Slowly looking back up again, there was no mistaking the red seeping through her fingers.

Bucky felt something catch in his throat. "I – I punched you," he realised, almost choking on air as he hurried to straighten up. Absently he noticed they must have pulled over, the car idling on the side of the road with others zooming past. "I d-didn't mean too, I thought you were – I just thought that you… _Sammy,_ I didn't mean…"

The woman smiled at him, albeit weaker than usual, as she took her hands away. "It's okay," she muttered, voice strangled.

But it wasn't. With nothing blocking his vision, he could see the split lip in perfect clarity, could see the sickening amount of blood pour onto her shirt and dribble down the length of her neck. Like in the dream – _memory_ – he felt his stomach clench up nervously.

"It's not okay," he whispered back.

Samara pulled a face, one hand lifting to press gingerly to the torn skin. "You were tossing and turning, a clear nightmare," she argued, voice still sounding a little odd as she spoke through the wound. "I should've known better than to try and wake you up. It was my bad. Don't sweat it."

Was she – _was she taking the blame for being punched?_ Bucky blinked helplessly, watching the woman reach over to his side and root through the glove box. "You got hit, square in the face," he pointed out slowly. "And you're blaming, not the person who punched you, but yourself?"

The doctor shifted back. "I'm sorry," Samara tried again, playing with whatever she'd pulled from the glove compartment. "I just – you looked scared, and you were whimpering and I freaked a little okay? I just wanted you to wake up, so I thought that shaking you would do the trick or – or at least do something, you know?"

Bucky stared the woman down. "Don't be sorry," he stated bluntly, shaking his head before continuing in an emotionless drone. "I punched you; you're meant to be pissed not apologetic. You need to stop blaming yourself when I do something wrong."

"Do something wrong?" Samara snorted. "You had a nightmare? That's not wrong, that's human."

"I'm not just referring to the nightmare, Samara, and you know it," Bucky murmured lowly, looking up and catching whiskey eyes. He couldn't hold them for long however, and the moment he saw she'd clicked to his meaning, they danced away. "I don't blame you, and I'm sorry for hurting you."

Her chest shuddered with her next breath, entire frame rocking with it. "Yeah, yeah, okay," the doctor sighed, blinking his way. "It's okay though, really. I forgive you."

The assassin dipped his head in a nod, watching as she gently dabbed a tissue against the injury. "Good, now come here," he commanded, frowning as he pulled another sheet of white from the packet on her lap. The least he could do was tend to the wound, having caused it with his own hand. "Does it hurt?"

Samara indulged him by leaning forward, letting him fuss over the cut. "Not really? I mean, it could've been worse. If I'd woken you up when we were in bed, you would've had more room to really get some momentum going. At least in the car your hit was a little boxed in and awkward, so it wasn't even near full power I think?" she mused, lips pursing before she winced. "Oh lovely, I can't even use my face now."

Pressing harder on the cut for a second to get her attention, Bucky made a noise of reprimand. "I wasn't asking how much it _could've_ hurt, I'm asking how much it hurts now," he muttered, moving to grab another tissue.

There was a lot of blood, but facial wounds tended to over-exaggerate, and from what he could see the cut was strangely minor – maybe an inch across the plumpest part of her lower lip. It would hurt to heal, and be ripped open whenever she smiled, but it wasn't serious. Maybe they were lucky they'd been in a car rather than a more open space.

He could've killed her…

Samara made a quiet sound, like a hum, but her head shifted back, showing he was being too rough. "Sorry," he muttered thickly, swallowing past the emotion clogging his throat. "Next time I look like I'm having a bad dream, don't try and wake me."

"But you were tossing and you looked – "

Gripping her chin in his hand, Bucky held her eyes. "Don't try and wake me," he rehashed firmly.

After a few seconds, she nodded and looked down, breathing out through her nose. "Okay," she promised, tongue darting out to wet the cut almost absent mindedly. Instantly, she hissed and her features contorted in pain. "Damn, awkward swing or not, you have a mean right hook."

Bucky let out an obedient laugh. "Guess I do…"

He worked in silence for a little longer, patiently dabbing the cut whenever the blood welled up again, but he could feel her eyes tracking his own. Occasionally, she'd take in a breath and he could see her throat shift like she wanted to speak, but she never did. He wasn't sure if she was struggling to think of something to say, or struggling to think of how to phrase something on her mind.

After a few seconds, she finally seemed to work it out. "Buck…" she started predictably, eyes dipping away before coming back. "You don't have to answer me, you know, but I was – I was only wondering about…"

He knew where this was going. "The nightmare?"

Guilt twisted the golden shade of her eyes, and it took him less than a second to decide he didn't like it. "Yeah, the nightmare," Samara confirmed, nodding once but not shaking his hand away.

Bucky felt his brow come together, hand slowing to press against the cut rather than clean it. He didn't give himself time to think, instead diving in headfirst. "We were going after Zola. He was – he was on a train, headed to Berlin I think it was?" he guessed slowly, refusing to look up. "We had to use a zip line, a wire, to get to the train and we had to be accurate or we'd be _bugs on a windshield._ "

The woman's lips grew in a barely there smile, but it was enough to start up the bleeding again. He made a small sound of annoyance, but went right back to wiping the crimson away.

"I was right after Steve, and we both went into one of the carriages, but no one was there. No guards, no patrols, nothing. I was about to say something, point out it was strange, but this door slammed shut, separating us," Bucky continued, the story falling from his lips like he'd never forgotten it. "These three guys came in behind me, and I used my rifle to take out two, but the third hid. It was the typical style firefight you know? I'd shoot, then I'd hide so he could shoot."

He had an almost bitter smile now, like it was a good memory despite knowing it wasn't. "I ran outta bullets though, but before the guy could get any closer there was Steve, giving me his own weapon before charging forward, the little punk." He actually did smile now, a small laugh leaving his lips. "I told him; _I had him on the ropes…_ "

The smile died, like a flame being snuffed out. "There was someone in a metal suit, with a powered weapon. They blew a hole in the side of the train and knocked Steve down, and I just – I panicked. Picked up the shield, fired with everything the pistol had… I don't know why I thought I could hold up against it. If Steve couldn't, then I wouldn't have been able too, no way no how. But I didn't see that, I just saw this monster aiming at my best friend."

Bucky pulled back, slumping against the seat as metal digits tore the bloodied hanky to shreds. "When it hit me I went flying. Out the side, and along the wall, but there was some railing and I grabbed onto it with everything I had," he breathed, leaning back to stare at the roof of the car. "Steve was there, telling me to hold on, then telling me to grab his hand. I could hear the metal creaking…"

With another gasped sound, the woman beside him seemed to realise what mission he was recalling. "1945," Samara whispered, staring at him with wide eyes. "The mission where you…"

"Died?" Bucky offered. "Not quite."

"Where you fell."

The correction made him falter, brow coming down again to sit above his eyes. "Yeah, that one," he grumbled, rubbing silver fingers across his features. The sound of a car horn blaring made him remember where they were, what they were trying to achieve. "How far away are we?"

Samara licked her lip again, gently this time to avoid provoking more blood. "About forty minutes? Should I keep going?" she questioned, moving like she wanted to start the car up again. "It's getting close to dinner time, are you hungry? We could probably find a drive through before we – "

"It's fine Sam, don't worry," Bucky reached out, taking her hand away from the ignition. "We're not in a rush. Take a few minutes."

Gratefully, the woman slumped back with a drawn out sigh. "Yeah, that's a good idea," she murmured, closing her eyes for a few seconds longer than a blink. "So mister, you ever had sushi?"

* * *

He didn't like sushi.

Taking another swig from his drink, he shot her a scandalised look. "Who eats raw fish?" he demanded, rinsing the sugary pop around his mouth in an attempt to cleanse the taste. Across the table, the brunette was sniggering into her own glass. "Oh I'm glad this is so amusing to you."

Samara's smile was bright, untainted even by the blooming bruise on her chin. "I told you not to get that one," she reminded him, cautiously opening her mouth to take a delicate bite. "I told you to play it safe."

Bucky grumbled back something inaudible.

"You're such a drama queen," the doctor mocked, lifting a hand to flag down another waitress. "Order something new."

When the woman reached them, he politely read out the options on the menu that seemed safer, opting for simple proteins and vegetables he knew. With a promise to return as soon as she could, the woman flounced away, his untouched meal in tow.

Bucky watched her move before looking back to the brunette. "You don't mind?"

With a shrug, his worries were thrown aside. "No? We're testing to see if they're following my credit card anyway, so the bigger the purchase the better," Samara winked, smacking her own lips before hesitating. "Here try this one, you might like it. It'll hold you over until your own gets here."

The plate was pushed his way, and he suspiciously looked it over, taking in the white of the rice and the green of something he didn't recognize. Gingerly, he picked it up with his fingers. "I won't die?"

The woman snorted. "Eat it, you damn wuss."

Popping it into his mouth whole, he chewed for a few seconds, rolling the flavours around. "S'not so bad," he allowed, reaching out for another, and deciding that whatever the green shit was, it was good. Realising he was hungrier than he thought, he shoved the roll past his lips again. "What is it?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full," was the instant reprimand, the doctor quirking up a brow. "And it's chicken and avocado; you heard me order it. Aren't you meant to be smart?"

It was Bucky's turn to snort. "I was a sniper, not an intelligence agent," he argued. "Any smarts I have are purely coincidental."

Samara giggled, covering her mouth with one hand as she snuck a look around, making sure no one had heard the sound. They weren't in some high end place, so it wasn't a matter of decency, but she always seemed to be nervous if she was too loud or did something to draw attention. For an outgoing woman, she didn't like people noticing her. It was a conflicting and confusing mix, but it also seemed helpful. She didn't like being noticed, so she knew how to make so she _wasn't._

Again, all he could think was how perfect she'd be at undercover.

"You would've been good," Bucky decided to say, for god knows what reason. "You _would_ be good," he corrected, realising there was also the chance her career could change.

Samara's smile faded, but her lips didn't sober up, still tinged by humour. "I would be good at what, Barnes?" she teased, taking a loud slurp from her dwindling milkshake. With the sound, her cheeks flushed slightly and she hurried to put the drink down.

"Intelligence work."

 _That_ got her attention, alcoholic irises snapping to his person. "Like, undercover spy shit?"

Bucky nodded slowly, tilting his head. "You stand out, but at the same time you fit in perfectly," he mused, shaking his head in confusion. "I don't understand it. If you want to be noticed, you would be, but when you don't want to be, you're not. And believe it or not, but even I can't read you sometimes…"

"You can't?" Samara feigned a surprised look. "My, my, stop the presses."

The assassin pulled a face. "I'm serious here."

A hand was placed over his own, and just like it had the night before, it made his heart thud painfully loud in his chest. "So am I, Buck," Samara smiled, wrinkling her nose. "I like what I do, and if I didn't do it; you and I never would have met, when you think about it. Anyway," she announced, taking her hand back with a flourish. "Right now, we're kinda the perfect team, don't you think? You go out, assassinate some bitches, and then you come home and I patch you up so you can do it all again."

He didn't know what it was about the words that made him smile. It could've been the woman saying she'd rather be a doctor, because she not only liked the occupation but she never would've met him otherwise, or maybe her thinking they were a perfect team? Maybe it was the unflinching decision that _she_ was his home.

Either way he smiled.

* * *

 **Phew, another shorter one yes, but I'm happy with this one and didn't want to drag it out too terribly much. Also I wrote it all in the past three hours so whoops? I didn't plan ahead.**

 **Also, get ready for the next chapter – it's gonna be a sucker punch more or less!**

 **Taila xx  
**


	24. Ready, steady, go?

_Confusing Shit #34 – Public displays of affection. These are not a thing. Please stop._

The sigh that sounded close to his ear showed that, not only was the woman reading over his shoulder again, but also that she agreed with the words he'd hurried to write down on paper. Not that he was terribly surprised. Anybody would've agreed with the words if they were within ten feet of the couple at the front desk.

He'd seen similar couples back in his day – the ones that snuck in one quick kiss before parting ways, the ones that held hands under the counter at the diner as they waited for their order – so the notion wasn't _new_ to him. But just like everything else, it was different in the new century. Back then, if he'd caught a blushing couple doing something affectionate in public, he'd find it adorably innocent.

Now, however?

"Where is his hand even going…" Bucky murmured, leaning slightly to the side and speaking from the corner of his mouth. Almost seconds after he posed the question to the doctor, the answer became clear.

Samara let out a small squeak. "That's where it's going," she breathed, cheeks stained a glorious shade of pink. "Oh wow, that's – that's a bit much, don't you think? I get that it's after ten, and things get a little feisty past eight on a week day, but _damn._ Do you think they've noticed this is a public setting?"

As awkward as the situation was, he couldn't help but smile lightly. "You know, I'm pretty sure that's not the reason skirts were invented," he mused, turning to cock a brow at the woman.

"That joke was made in poor taste!" Samara snorted, slapping his arm. "But I'm proud. That was a good one."

Bucky shrugged, refusing to look up even when the sound of heels hitting lino reached him. "You taught me well," he muttered, wincing when he noticed the couple moving to sit across from them. "Great, and I thought the urge to punch that guy was hard to ignore when he was more than ten feet away."

The doctor let out a sound closer to a bark than it was a laugh, her hand coming up to slap across her lips within seconds. "Don't do it," she whispered, meeting his eyes. "You might catch something."

"Never before have I successfully smothered the urge to be violent."

The sound of the laughter was muffled from beside him. "Okay, okay, stop it," Samara commanded, straightening her shirt. "I don't know where you got this sense of humour from, but I demand that you _stop_. At least until we're out of earshot of those two. Now, I'm going to go get us a room. You, stay here with our things."

Bucky tried to grab her sleeve. "What? No, you can't leave me here with them!" he hissed, hand snagging in the rich material for all of three seconds before the doctor snuck away. "Sammy, you little piece of – "

Samara turned and raised a pointed brow. He knew the woman well enough to know what the look meant.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm shutting up," Bucky muttered, slumping back in his seat with a worn sigh. The next giggle was far too close for comfort, and he felt his cheek twitch in irritation with the sound. "You haven't had your vaccinations, Barnes, don't do it."

Pointedly pretending he couldn't hear the pair, he moved to the front of the book in his hands, reading over the dream he'd had earlier that day. It was all there – from the wind whipping through his hair to the railing snapping under his hands – and just like he remembered, the writing changed part way through; transitioning from his awkward scrawl to a strangely neat cursive.

" _Oh my – just pass it here, you dick, I'll write it. It's a wonder anyone can read your chicken scratch. Did you know it's a common joke that doctors have terrible writing? Clearly, they haven't met me. Not that many people do, I'm not one for public outings. Or friends for that matter. My fridge is the only friend I'll ever need. And – don't look at me like that, I'm focusing, I'm focusing. Right, so after the pistol ran outta bullets, what happened?"_

Bucky cracked a short smile at the ghosting memory. He knew the reason she'd taken his pen away, and it had nothing to do with his writing, but instead everything to do with the shaking in his fingers and the look on his face and –

– and the couple were still going at it.

The soldier took a deep breath in when yet another round of laughter echoed, choosing to slowly shut the book and drop it back into the safe confines of his pack. Maybe if he asked them to tone it down, they would? He knew people could be confrontational, but most smothered the urge to play the tough guy when they caught sight of him.

Samara wouldn't be mad if he was polite, would she? If he _used his words and not his deathy death glare of death._

Clearing his throat quietly, he readied what he wanted to say, looking up with a half formed sentence on his tongue. It took less than a second for his mouth to snap shut.

The couple must've tired of the almost vulgar actions from before, and were now settled into the couch, comfortably wrapped up in each other in an almost innocent fashion. If they noticed they had his attention, they didn't show it, instead solely focused on each other in such a way that made him feel like an intruder in his own skin.

Bucky hurried to look down, narrowing his eyes. _That's how it was before I was shipped out, that's what I'd see in every diner and on every bus travelling through town._

The memory made his chest ache slightly. He could remember seeing other couples like that, could remember elbowing his best friends side and pointing it out just to see the blond blush, but he didn't remember doing it. Did he not like showing affection publicly? Or did he never find someone like that? _The right partner_ , as Steve would say.

His eyes drifted to the front desk.

Samara was standing there alone, tapping her fingers against the wooden counter idly as she waited, but she looked up, no doubt feeling his eyes the second he glanced her way. He was given a blinding smile as the woman mimed putting a gun to her head, pretending to pull the trigger before slouching over the desk.

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head, before gesturing to the couple with his chin. Her eyes flickered their way, nose wrinkling before she pointed at him and poked out her tongue in a silent mockery.

"Rude," he muttered, snorting when her attention was taken by the hotel clerk.

Reaching down and pulling out his book – again – he flipped to the front, thumbing through until he found a fresh page. He could hear the woman coming back his way, and hurried to scribble down the three words before slamming the leather shut, shooting her a smile when she started talking.

"Okay mister hunky but dangerous, we're on the fourth floor," Samara announced, waving the key in her hand. "High enough to have some form of warning should the building get stormed by the troopers – get it, stormed by troopers, storm troopers? – but low enough for easy access and assassining," she continued, moving to pick up one of their bags. "And I just realised all pop culture jokes are lost on you. Why have you not seen Star Wars yet?"

Bucky blinked, working through the words before catching up and slipping the journal into his backpack. "Right. Fourth floor. High enough for warning, low enough for assassining. Got it."

"Yeah but you didn't get the storm troopers joke, so the rest is void. You still suck."

Giving the woman his signature glare, he hiked up their bags. "Are we going to sit here all day, or are we going up to our room?" he droned, quirking a brow. "Because I'm tired, and I want a hot chocolate."

Samara snorted but started walking, leaving him to follow. "You always want a hot chocolate. I feel guilty for introducing to you to the heavenly mixture of chocolate and milk. Hey, wait, can super soldiers get diabetes?" she pondered, faltering slightly as they waited for the elevator. "High blood pressure has to be a thing, super or not."

"I'm about three seconds away from punching you," Bucky threatened, eyes darting down to the bruising around her lower lip. "Again. I'm about three seconds away from punching you _again_."

The doctor clambered onto the elevator, sending him a wicked grin. "Ah, but who here knows how to make the hot chocolates?"

"I hate you."

"I know."

They fell into what he could only call a companionable silence for the rest of the trip, neither of them finding the need to speak as the elevator travelled up to their level. He was happy they'd reached this point – comfortable silence without the doctor struggling to fill it with senseless words – and milked it for all it was worth, using the silence to sort through his thoughts.

Steve had always said the words _the right partner_ like they were a prayer. The stupid punk had been one of those romantics who'd believed in soul mates and fate, the type to gush over those old movies and novels with a damn sparkle in his eyes. Bucky had thought it was stupid back then – he was having flashing memories of repeatedly rolling his eyes and sighing? – and still thought it was stupid now but…

But what were the chances? Seventy years, a world changing fight, and injuries he'd needed treating had led him through a rich neighbourhood. Then the words on the fence had pulled him into that house.

It seemed like such a…

" – coincidence, don't you think?" Samara muttered, shocking him back into reality with a smile. "We have the same room number as we did back in New York, despite the different floors. Should I take this as a warning of things to come, or as a sign that this suite is going to be tiny compared to our last one?"

Bucky licked his lips. "Smaller suite," he breathed, shaking his head as the woman unlocked the door. The simple golden brass key made him strangely happy, like a small reminder that the past may be gone but not forgotten. "I'm going to assume you got a double bed for us to share again?"

The blush that lit up the woman's cheeks was worth the comment, and he hid his own smile. "Uh, well, I didn't think you'd mind too much, and I've kinda gotten used to it? I mean… I can change it if you want?" she offered, opening the door wide enough for both him and the bags to come through. "I know I sleep like an octopus but it's nice having someone close by."

 _Yeah, it really is._

Dropping their bags in the middle of nowhere, Bucky flopped onto the couch. "I demand a hot chocolate."

"Of course you do," Samara sighed, but despite the complaint was already moving into the small excuse of a kitchenette. "Honestly, a relationship is give and take, you know? Not take and take."

The comment made him pause, snarky response frozen on his tongue. Relationship. Humming as she pottered about, the woman didn't seem to notice or care about what she'd said, instead focused on making the requested drink, while the soldier across from her seemed dead to the world.

Relationship.

Also known as code for; _something they really needed to talk about._

Bucky let his eyes slip closed, chest moving in a fortifying breath. "That couple, the one in the foyer," he started slowly, going for casual as he picked at the already fraying edges of his gloves. "What do you think their story was?"

"Honeymoon, I bet," Samara chuckled. "Did you see how they were all over each other? It's one of the perks of youth; zero shame."

He hummed in response. "Were you ever like that? In your…" he hesitated, wondering about what word he wanted to use and if he wanted to know the answer. "In your youth?"

The doctor squawked in outrage. "I'll have you know I'm still in my youth, thank you!" she argued, coming to stand in front of him with her hands on her hips. "And maybe? I don't think so. I never really did the whole _long term relationship_ thing, you know? If you couldn't tell, between study and my family I didn't really have the time. Also, apparently I'm annoying?"

Bucky snorted. "That sounds about right."

"And you sound like an asshole."

Straightening up, his hands itched with the urge to draw her onto his lap. Maybe that was something he would've done back then, back when his left arm was flesh and blood. Something _Bucky_ would've done? Testing the waters, so to speak, he carefully chose his next words. "Yeah, but I'm your asshole. So you're stuck with me."

Golden eyes rolled skywards. "Yes, I am," she sighed. "God help me."

Bucky bit his lip. That hadn't really helped the situation in the least, had it? Running a hand over his brow, he gave up with testing the waters and decided to just dive right in, his free arm reaching up to hook around the woman's waist and tug her down. She hit his lap with a quiet; _"oof,"_ but didn't speak any further as he wound his hands around her and buried his nose in her neck.

It was more awkward than the couple downstairs had made it look, and he doubted she was as comfortably seated as he was, but he could see the appeal in it. She was warm, and she smelt like the spicy undertone of her perfume, and most importantly, she _fit._

This had to have been something he used to do. And if it wasn't – then the old him was an idiot. Maybe he could ask Steve? He'd know, wouldn't he? Steve was his best friend, he had to know if –

"So are you cuddling me before you kill me, or are you trying to cuddle me to death?"

Bucky sighed, resisting the urge to just shove the woman away. "You're ruining the moment," he muttered, closing his eyes in exhaustion. It wouldn't hurt too much when she hit the ground, and it _would_ help cement his point of annoyance…

The woman wiggled in his grip. "Right. The moment. How could I forget about the moment when contemplating the possibility of future assassination?" she grumbled, giving up when the hold on her body tightened. "That was so damn rude of me. How dare I ruin a moment in which I'm not sure what the hell is happening."

"I saw the couple downstairs doing it," Bucky defended, shifting the female around until she was splayed out across his lap more comfortably. "I wanted to do it. See the appeal. But too be fair, his missus didn't talk as much as mine."

Silence.

Not even a peep about his _didn't talk as much as mine_ comment.

Bucky bit his lip, checking the woman over for defects. "Sammy?" he tried again, hesitantly using silver fingers to shift her hair away from her features. Almost instantly, the brown locks fall back into place. "Sam?"

Again, nothing.

Maybe he'd broken her?

Samara startled back into awareness, blinking over at him with confused amber irises. "You, uh, you know I still don't really know what's happening right? I uh, don't think I've been called someone's missus before, honestly. Remember the whole _annoying_ bit I was telling you about before…"

"Yeah, I remember. Someone called you annoying. It was rude," Bucky chuckled, leaning back to watch her cheeks go from dangerously pale to beautifully flushed. "But true."

Her eyes flickered his way, no longer confused, but _worried._ It was almost studious, how she watched him, eyes drifting over his features before narrowing and then widening in realisation. "Hey, Buck? You wanna talk to me about something?" she smiled, moving to scratch at his growing facial hair. "You know I won't run away or anything, and you _know_ I'll listen."

Bucky wrinkled his nose, batting her hand away and frowning at her responding smile. "I kissed you…" he murmured carefully. "And you kissed me back."

"Well yeah, obviously, I'm not the one who said _public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable._ I could've pushed you away and then slapped you or something, but that's not a display of affection, it's actually a public display of assault and that doesn't make people uncomfortable. It would've actually gotten me arrested," Samara finished, brows going high. "Wouldn't that have been, like, the opposite of what we initially wanted?"

Confusion made him quirk a brow back, cheek itching lightly now that the woman _wasn't_ scratching it. "I did it again, you do remember?" he pointed out. "And there was no guard, no men in blue. You kissed back because you wanted too."

Samara blinked, tongue darting out to wet her lips. "Uh, yeah no, I remember that. Hard to forget. So what's the thing that's happening right now? I mean, I totally _know_ what's happening, but you should say it out loud. Just for laughs."

"What are we?"

Apparently it was just for laughs, seeing as the woman lost her shit.

Bucky scowled her way, squeezing her hips again in reprimand for the sound. "Something funny?" he growled, narrowing his eyes when she hurried out an apology. "Samara, darling, answer the question."

"It's just – you do remember you're a deadly assassin, don't you? You know, murderous, dangerous, violent? You're not meant to be adorable. It's not fair. I mean, come on man, I object," she argued, slamming her hand down on her thigh jokingly. His next squeeze wasn't exactly _gentle._ "Shit! I give, I give, okay? It's just you're adorable as is, and then you go and do this? I repeat; not fair. Shy Bucky is now my reason for existing."

"Answer the question," Bucky demanded. "Or I'll assassin your ass."

The doctor gave him another winning smile, the edge almost tainted by something dark and nervous. "Okay, well, you didn't really ask me a question and assassin isn't a verb."

" _Samara!"_

The woman started back, almost falling from his lap if it hadn't been for the arm around her waist. "I don't know what you want me to say, and you know that's why I'm rambling," she whispered, meeting his eyes for all of a second before looking down. "This isn't a romance novel, Buck, so I don't wanna assume anything and um… I uh – I don't even know what they would've called it back in your day, or whatever…"

The meeker expression made him relax minutely, shifting the female so she wasn't almost on the floor. At least she wasn't actually laughing at him. "Courting?" he offered. "That's what… that's what I'm thinking."

"So, you wanna be… you wanna go steady?"

"Okay, we're going steady," Bucky decided with a firm nod, checking over his shoulder. "Hey, I think the waters ready. Hot chocolate? Yes or no? You _did_ say you were gonna make one."

Samara blinked over at him, lips moving soundlessly before she seemed to give up, eyes flicking over to the kitchenette. "You, uh," she bit her lower lip for strength, the action nothing more than a second thought, but apparently forgot about the cut. "Ouch, shit, okay no. But still _what_?"

"Steady," Bucky repeated. "So, about that hot chocolate…"

"You – deadly assassin man – wanna go steady with me?" Samara parroted. "That's, oh that's cute and – do you even know what steady means? You actually don't, do you? Oh my god, you don't. This is taking advantage of someone, and I refuse to be a part of this," she breathed, trying to slither away from him.

It didn't work.

Bucky simply tightened his grip, and shifted the woman until he could bury his face in her neck again. "Would you like me to look up what going steady means on the web?"

"You might regret doing that and please – please never say that again," Samara commanded, pushing to her feet and brushing away imaginary specks of dust from her shirt. "You remember how to use the internet on my phone, big boy? It's the pretty little planet, meant to look like the one we call home?"

Scooping her phone up from the table, he slumped back into the cushions. "I know which one it is," he muttered defensively. "Internet. It even has the little title under it."

A snort was his answer.

"Okay, so it's loading," Bucky revealed. "First option; urban dictionary."

Now a spoon clattering to the counter was his answer.

"Right, so going steady is _what white kids in the fifties called dating?"_ he read aloud, clicking his tongue in disappointment. "That's what courting means too, you know? And this was almost oddly specific. I like this site, how do I save it so I can always get it when I want it, again? And I was – hey, what happens if I press the random word button?"

Another spoon clattering? How many spoons did she have? "Bucky don't – Don't do that, terrible things happen if one decides to explore that website, I promise you. No random words, and don't type in any either."

"You can type in words?"

That was a third fucking spoon?

"So then, what would happen if I type in your name?" Bucky mused slyly, giving the woman a smirk. " _Sa_ … _ma_ … _ra_ … spells Samara! And oh lookie here," he cleared his throat. " _A beautiful girl who is very sarcastic?_ Well that's not insulting, that's just… strangely accurate?"

No spoon clutter this time around.

Bucky snorted, and went back up the search bar at the top of the page. "I'm going to type in my name. See if this site keeps the ball rolling, you know?"

The good doctor must've run outta spoons.

"Okay so James?" Bucky started, making a small sound in his throat as the page loaded. " _James. Someone who is well hung…_ It's like this website knows our lives," he proclaimed, grinning when the snorted laugh echoed. "Shut up, I'm not finished. _People with the name James are generally known for their good looks – especially the eyes – and women are just simply attracted to them."_

Samara must've snuck up on him, because the phone was gone and replaced with a steaming mug. "Okay, while I admit both of those were strangely accurate, you are not using urban dictionary to dictate the rest of your life. Drink your hot chocolate."

"I'm drinking it, I'm drinking it…" he promised before… "Look up what Steve means."

"No."

Bucky pouted and settled back into the couch, noticing the woman hovering for a few seconds. "Hey, sit down and finish your drink then we should probably get to bed," he murmured, sipping again as he opened up the right side of his body, gesturing for the woman to sit next to him. "I wanna scope out that asshole's house first thing, then shopping and lunch after."

Samara bit her lip, but carefully lowered herself beside him, fitting against his side. "So, steady?"

"Steady," Bucky nodded.

They both fell into silence again, happily drinking their night caps and settling into the idea of sleep. Something nagging in the back of his mind had quietened now with the decision, and he felt a little better with it gone. It was easier to hear his own thoughts in the silence, easier to focus…

But there were still other voices he had to smother, other distorted tones telling him what to say and how to act. They drowned out his own voice sometimes, but every day managed to kill off another few. There were less than before, but they were still there.

He just had to get rid of them before they got rid of Bucky.

* * *

 _Kill her and run._

 _We need to go to Siberia._

 _It's all you're good for._

 _Asset._

 _Siberia should be our next location._

 _The others._

 _The general._

 _The mission._

 _Siberia._

 _Kill her._

* * *

Steve refused to move an _inch._

Down the bed, splayed out across the covers, the genius let out a world weary moan. "Please, Steve? Just one? Maybe three, depending on how we feel?" he tried, sitting up with pleading brown eyes. "It will only take a minute, one minute, I promise!"

The blond kept his eyes firmly on the report in his hands, refusing to look up, refusing to be sucked into those damn puppy dog eyes. "I said no, Tony, and _you_ said you'd help me. Keep your word and help me man," he grumbled, hesitantly looking up for a split second. He regretted it within moments. "Tony, no."

"One minute! You won't even notice, I swear!"

Steve narrowed his eyes. "Don't do it."

He could see the man's cheek twitch in instant defiance. "Screw you, I built this place, I run this place. Jarvis, you know what to do," Tony announced stubbornly, chin up and arms folded across his chest.

" _Ordering three large pepperoni and cheese lovers pizzas, sir."_

Steve gently, and oh so calmly, pushed the paper he was reading to the side and gave the billionaire his full attention. "Tony, what did we talk about? I know you heard me."

In response, the man's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Fine. We do it the hard way. Jarvis?" Steve started sweetly. "Two large pepperoni and cheese lovers, and one large Hawaiian."

Tony let out an honest to god growl, lips pursed in a well-practised pout and chin lifted. "Pineapple," he grumbled, coming closer and hovering right in the blond's bubble. "Does _not_ belong on a pizza!"

"And coffee is not a meal replacement."

Tony threw himself across the bed dramatically, gasping. "You take that back!"

Raising a brow and settling against the headboard again, Steve shook his head. "How about no?" he murmured, already going back to the paperwork in his hands. "And cheesecake isn't a diet."

Two fists were waggling in the air now, almost comically. "Fight me."

Steve struggled to keep the smile from his face, but despite his best efforts he felt it growing until his cheeks hurt. "Shut up, you idiot," he chuckled, reaching out to lightly punch the man in the shoulder. "Honestly. You're so easily distracted; how do you get anything done?"

"Coffee and cheesecake. As I said old man, fight me."

"As I said, shut up," Steve retorted.

Tony gave him a careful look before he simply snorted, nodding as though he agreed. "Fine, fine, whatever the queen wants and all that," he droned, sighing as he moved to pick up a new sheet. "Oh and Jarvis? I changed my mind. Not really feeling pizza anymore. How about you order in some Chinese?" Brown eyes darted to blue. "That's your favourite, right Cap?"

Steve didn't think he could smile any wider. "Yeah, yeah it is."

"Neat," the genius allowed. "Oh and Jarv? Forget my orange chicken and I'll turn you into a toaster oven. Thanks darling, love you."

Not bothering to hide the chuckle, Steve went back to the mission report in his hand, smile dying rather quickly in wake of what his best friend had gone through without him. It wasn't easy reading any of this. It hurt, it ached, it burnt. Maybe if he'd gone to look for the body after that mission, if he'd just…

It hurt a little less with someone so close beside him, leeching away a little of the pain by just breathing the same air and ordering him his favourite takeout.

"So," Steve started playfully. "What are you reading?"

Tony played along without needing to ask what the game was. "Oh this old thing? Mission report…" he squinted at the paper, clicking his tongue before continuing. "Mission report December 16th 1991."

* * *

 **Ah you know, I love my job! Ruining people's days? Best thing. It's just amazing. It fills me a sort of anticipation, you know? Like how will they threaten my lives this time, or will that next knock on my door be an angry reader coming to kill me?**

 **It's exciting :)**

 **Taila xx**


	25. I'm uncomfortable now

Steve could only stare uselessly, his eyes wide and pleading. "Tony…"

In response to his name, the man let out a shuddering breath, shoulders falling forward and entire frame trembling as he struggled to fill his lungs again. "Steve?" he bit back.

It was a single moment but it felt like forever, like someone was dragging out the hurt – and he would swear to anyone who listened that the next second really lasted hours. Steve would swear that the rolling pain in his stomach, the silence echoing around him, the agony lacing a single breath, that it _all_ lasted centuries rather than minutes.

Feeling his heart break a little as brown eyes lifted, Steve tried to find the playful light that he'd been seeing all evening, tried to find some show that the man before him was still a friend. But he couldn't. The once warm shade was dead, and he was beginning to feel like a bug under a microscope; studied with nothing more than cold interest.

Nervously the blond tried again, placing the file down and reaching out for the shorter male. "Tony, I need you to listen to me," he instructed softly, tongue darting out wet his cracking lips. "You know – come on you _know_ it wasn't really him."

"He killed my mum."

Steve flinched at the bland, almost disinterested tone, hand curling back to his side when wild eyes glared it down. Like an hour before, the billionaires anger seemed to manifest in the urge to move; his chest heaving with every breath and hands twitching like he wanted to throw something just to watch it shatter.

Tony was often moving somehow someway, be it his fingers drumming a beat onto his coffee cup or his knee bouncing under the table, so it wasn't like the notion was new, but it was _wrong._ The blond really couldn't name what was making his hackles rise, but there was something lacking with every shift of sinewy muscles. There was no grace, no movement simply because the man could move, but more because he _had too_.

Checking to make sure the mission report was safely out of reach, the soldier dove back in. "Tony, I know how this must feel, but I need you to understand that Bucky didn't know – "

The punch was quick, glancing across his cheek and sending him fumbling.

Admittedly, it was more the shock than the actual pain that sent him back against the headboard, the wood banging against the base of his skull and creating dancing lights in his vision. There had been strength behind the hit, and he could feel the sting on his skin that warned him there was blood, but if it had been anyone else to swing he wouldn't have moved more than an inch. If it had been anyone else, he never would've backed down and stayed down.

Probing the damaged flesh on his cheek, he let out a small distressed sound. He couldn't have cared less that he was punched – it came with the territory of being a superhero – but he cared that it had been the genius, _his friend_ who'd lifted his hand.

Steve kept the tips of his fingers pressing against his skin, fighting the urge to appear as something other than a friend. He didn't know how the billionaire would react to an enemy right about now, and he didn't _want_ too either. "This won't change anything," he murmured, hurrying to clear his throat when his voice gave out. "But you know that, don't you?"

Cold brown eyes were still boring into him, tearing up his insides. "I either punch you, or I go out and punch your dear assassin," Tony hissed, shifting until he was back on his feet. As he wandered almost aimlessly back, not letting the blond out of his sight, his lips lifted in a strained attempt at a smile. "I'm getting bored of this already. You know me, easily distracted and all that – say, how about we go for a few rounds? No suit and no shield, of course. Just you and me."

"This won't fix what – "

"And I really don't care," Tony cut in, voice deceptively calm and levelled. "I really don't care about fixing anything. I care about avenging it. Isn't that the mission? Isn't that why we fight?"

You know, Steve could've handled screaming, he could've handled another punch aimed his way or even tears, but this? This was bordering on something he didn't think he _could_ handle. Whoever was standing before him, all flashing teeth and camera ready smiles, wasn't his friend.

Feeling something almost acidic settle in his chest, Steve frowned, again trying for a voice of reason. "Tony, revenge never takes you down a good path," he warned, moving to his feet and reaching out for a second time. If the man would just _take his hand._ "You know this won't end well. I'm not asking you to forgive and forget, I'm just asking you not to do anything rash."

"Now why, oh why, would I need to _forgive?"_ Tony pondered mockingly, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the two hands held out towards him. "I mean, you said it wasn't really him, didn't you? If it wasn't him, there's nothing to forgive."

Steve closed his eyes, hating the way they stung. "You're playing with my words, hearing what you want to hear and not – "

Tony let out a gusty sigh. "Okay, so here's the deal, little miss perfect. In about three seconds, I'm going to punch you again. We can either do that here and get blood on your sheets – lovely satin by the way, who brought those for you? – or we can go down to the communal gym, and you can act like it's a simple sparring session between friends. Might help ease your conscience a little," he rambled, brown eyes waiting for the solider when he finally managed to open his own.

The dark colour still had the spark of anger lingering in its depths, bright and alert, but it had simmered down some – no longer raging and instead precise and controlled. Steve wasn't sure if he preferred the wildfire from before, as unpredictable as it was, or if he liked the brunet knowing where to aim.

Seeing that he had the soldier's attention, Tony smiled, the curve to his lips brittle. "I just wanna spar, aren't you the one who's all about health and wellbeing, Rogers?"

The blond made a small sound, looking to the heavens for guidance. "There's nothing _healthy_ about this," he whispered, watching the fire spark up for all of a second, eating at the mocking banter. "You're feeding something you'd be best ignoring."

" _Ignori – "_ Tony choked on the word, unable to even finish pronouncing it as he stumbled back.

The look decorating handsome features almost made it seem like the soldier had swung back – and for a few seconds, Steve felt like he _had_ , even going so far as to check his hands for blood – and the man's chest started heaving. Whatever careful control he had over his own emotions was slipping, his porcelain mask starting to crack and fray at the edges.

Now Steve could push. He could push and watch the genius snap. It would be spectacular, probably with lots of colourful words and flashing eyes – maybe an explosion, seeing as he knew the man as well as he did – but it would be messy.

Tony had to stay calm, or in the very least he had to stay rational.

And Steve needed control.

Fighting was very rarely rational, and ever rarer was it calm, but it was a field he knew he'd have control in whether he was winning every round or not. Adrenaline gave him a sense of calm he'd tried to replicate with meditation and various smelling incenses. It gave him a mind clearer than glass, and a focus sharper than any blade his enemy could use against him. It was how he functioned, how he'd won a war.

If he fought, he'd have control, but he wouldn't have calm.

 _But maybe calm isn't what Tony needs…_

Steve glanced up, mind working. The shorter man was still trying to right his breathing, his collarbones becoming gaunt when he sucked in and then disappearing as he exhaled nosily, but he was distracted by the mission of fulling his lungs. But once he'd battled, and won, the distraction would be gone and he'd need something else to focus on. If Steve let him leave, he'd have no say over the next few hours of the genius's time, and no say over where he directed his anger.

A fight would give Tony something to hit, and it would stop him from leaving and finding the assassin running rings around his mind…

Also, the billionaire was almost at the door so he was really running outta options here.

Crossing the room in the space of a second, Steve slammed his hand against the doorframe, stopping the man from going any further. He heard the sharp inhale, could practically see the wheels in the brunet's head turning as he thought up something sarcastically insulting to say, and hurried to open his own mouth first. "So, we're going to the gym then?"

"The gym? Why the hell would I – " Tony again cut the words short, realisation flashing across his features before he looked away. There was a spark of _something_ in his eyes, something different, but it was gone before the blond could pin it down. When the brown orbs looked up again, they were empty. "Right. The gym."

Steve gave a brisk nod back, standing to the side. "You wanted to spar," he reminded the other, trying for a smile of his own. Getting the man to follow him to the ring was one thing, convincing him of someone's innocence was another. "Health and wellbeing, right?"

"I actually wanted to punch you in your perfect teeth, but sure," Tony mocked, shoving both hands in his pockets. "Health and wellbeing," he muttered, putting some distance between them again, both physically and mentally, by walking away.

Steve could see the exact moment he was shut out. It was eerily similar to watching someone slam a door in his face and leave him out in the rain, sopping wet and miserable. Only something was telling him that the past twenty minutes had found him on the inside, warm and safe, while Tony was the one wandering away into the storm alone.

* * *

Humming under her breath, she checked again, running her fingers over the seams.

It was the right size, and the right style she liked to think, but the dark shade was where she was stuck. It hadn't taken her long to realise that short sleeves were out, seeing as they showed his arm, and he tended to lean towards loose collars – she didn't think he liked the feeling of something around his neck – but knowing what colour he liked? That was where she drew the line on knowing an assassin's wardrobe preferences.

Samara barely resisted the urge to bite her lip, knowing it would only irritate the wound there, as she looked over shoulder. Why was this so much harder than she remembered it being? A few days ago when she'd gone out, she hadn't seemed to put this much thought into it – just seen something, thought he'd like it and grabbed whatever had caught her eye.

But now she wasn't so sure.

What if he didn't like it? It _was_ rather simple, but he wasn't an overly complicated person. He appreciated simplicity. But maybe there was chance it was too simple? And she'd already brought him shirts before...

"Damn it," she hissed, plucking the shirt from the hanger and storming towards the front of the store.

It had been almost an hour since she and the assassin had parted ways – apparently she wasn't made for stalking people? – and most of that time had been spent staring at different racks in hope. There had been some success; a warm hoody was slung over her arm complete with a decal of a certain someone's shield, but now, looking back on it – maybe he would think it was insensitive, instead of funny? Crap.

"Um, excuse me?" Samara smiled brightly, ducking her head to gather the saleswoman attention. "I'm sorry, but do you have a minute? I need a little help. I've been staring at this shirt for hours and can't decide if I like it or not."

The woman looked up, features distracted. "Oh yes, I'm so sorry, I was reading this," she apologized, spinning the magazine in her hands around. A perfectly lacquered nail tapped at the glossy pictures and articles, the female tutting in disapproval. "Can you believe all the crap that happened? Damn government can't even stop from betraying _themselves_."

"Oh, I heard that it was actually – _holy shit_ , isn't that a right mess?" Samara gushed, reaching out to scoop up the magazine. The picture showed pure destruction, three burning hunks of metal collapsed on both water and land alike.

The saleswoman hummed in response. "That's an understatement, hon," she chuckled, holding her hand against her lips.

Studying the burning wreck, the doctor let out a small snicker of her own. "And they're the ones we're meant to look too?" she muttered, thumbing through the next few pages. "Look at this, it is gonna be a _bitch_ to clean up, mind my language. Did anyone get hurt? Oh, please say no one died."

"You won't believe this but very few people actually got injured and – " the woman looked around, leaning closer like she was about to reveal a secret. "Apparently, _Captain America_ was pulled from the river! He was in the best hospital in the city, but when the press went to interview him he was gone. People are saying that he went to Stark, you know, Ironman? Because he gave this huge press conference with that red headed assassin."

Samara felt her lips pop open, her own hand lifting to cover the display. "Holy hell," she announced dully, pushing the magazine away with another surprised snort. "Does anyone know who the red headed assassin is? All I ever hear is that, but never a name."

The woman shrugged, apparently remembering that she had a job to do. "I'm sure if you looked, you'd find it online. Everything's on there," she waved it away, reaching out to finger the edges of the shirt. "This is from the latest collection, right? I love it when these colours come in – the plum, burgundy, navy. All those royal shades you know?"

"Some men look damn edible in them," Samara admitted shyly, shifting the shirt about. "What do you think of this colour?"

"It's very rich looking," the woman mused, pursing pale lips. "Who's it for? Dark hair might suit plum better than a blonde." Posing the question, she looked up with a curious smile, finally actually seeming to notice the other person in her presence. The warm look seemed to drop rather suddenly. "Oh."

Samara frowned. "What is it? Do I have something on – " she cut her words short, finger tips brushing over the bruising. "Ah yeah, _that_. Looks nasty doesn't it? Worse than it is, I promise."

"We sell foundation, and concealers," the saleswoman offered shortly, adopting a strange look. "If you want to cover it up, I mean. It looks rather tender so maybe playing with it isn't the way to go. How did it happen?"

 _How did..._

"Um, it was a car door?" Samara muttered, clearing her throat. "I went to open it; person in the car opened it first. Clean hit. Think I might've actually blacked out for a few seconds, but it doesn't need stitches so no worries," she smiled, wrinkling her nose and looking back to the shirt. "And he's dark haired, a brunet."

The woman didn't follow her prodding. "What caused the bruises though?"

Samara frowned again, confusion littering the downturn of her lips. Wasn't it rather obvious? She'd been smashed in the face by a car door. It wasn't exactly going to cause a simple cut and then leave the rest of her face alone.

An amused look was shot her way, the woman tutting again. "Not on your lips, I mean your neck," she explained further, using her fingers to gesture to the open collar of her own shirt. Instantly she mimicked the action, pressing her palm against her throat. "They're quite faded, but they almost look like..."

 _Finger marks?_

Samara offered up a million dollar smile. "Harder to explain," she murmured, chuckling lightly before looking to the shirt and forcing their attention back to it. "Too rich, you think? He's got quite a bronzed skin shade going on."

The saleswoman blinked over at her for a few seconds, something uncertain flickering across her features. "I get it," she allowed quietly, nodding. "Anyway, uh, eye colour?"

"Blue," Samara tried to grin back, but the air had lost the polite humour from before. Whatever the twist to her lips was, it definitely wasn't a smile. "Uh, like crystals, you know? So sometimes they look bright blue, but sometimes they also look grey or silver? I don't get it, but if the right light hits, it's like _pow_ right in your face and wow, am I still talking?" she giggled awkwardly, clapping her hands on the counter and looking away.

The uncertain look melted into something she was almost tempted to call a connection. It was a girl thing. "Okay, is this guy nearby because I kinda need to see this," the woman drawled.

"He's somewhere, I lost him," Samara shrugged. "You know how guys get."

"Oh sweetie, I know. Hey, this shirt is a large," the older woman pointed out slowly, pursing her lips. "Big boy?"

"Well, the only thing big about him is his ego and – _shit a brick!"_ Samara shrieked, hurrying to duck behind the counter and leaving her pride somewhere in the air above her head. The man, the same one she happened to be gossiping about, thankfully kept walking. "Oh speak of the devil, look, look over there! Hunk in the grey hoody."

The woman practically fell over in her hurry to turn. "Holy – wow, okay, big boy," she giggled. "Girl, where did you find that? I want one. No, scratch that, I want _three_."

Samara checked around before slowly straightening up, brushing away an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve. "Oh, no you really don't. One of him is hard enough to manage, seriously," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "And dude, I know. He's huge. I'm pretty sure he can crush a watermelon with his thighs of betrayal..."

Beside her, the lady behind the counter let out a snorting laugh. "I was looking at his shoulders," she admitted. "It's like he shoves padding up there? You've seen him without a shirt right? It's all genuine?"

"All genuine. I swear on my life," Samara grumbled, fighting the urge to bite her lip again.

Maybe she should've been a little annoyed that the woman was _openly_ drooling over the man she was technically in a relationship with, but sharing was caring, and well, who was she to stop someone else's happiness? Bucky _was_ a little too gorgeous for his own good. Maybe more than a little.

Maybe a lot.

"Hey, anyway back to the shirt and – and what? Do I actually have something on my face this time?" Samara finished hurriedly, wiping at the corners of her lips when she caught the look being sent her way.

The saleswoman faltered for a second, brow coming together before she smiled. "Why'd you hide just then? Didn't want him to see you?" she teased awkwardly, clapping her hands once before picking up the shirt. "And uh, no, but your lip is bleeding a little bit. Was it just this?"

Samara felt her own brow knit together, coming to hover above her eyes. "And this, thanks?" she murmured, passing the material slung over the crook of her elbow.

The woman was quiet, nodding and taking the hoody before scanning them both and spilling out what was owed. As she bagged the items however, her eyes drifted over to the tense form of the man currently searching for brown hair, throat shifting in a tight swallow. Whatever the reaction was meant to be, it made the doctor nervous.

Checking over her shoulder, Samara watched the man stop at a display. "Oh shit, I forgot about that," she hissed, dragging a hand through her hair. "He wanted... new gloves..."

Her voice died in her throat.

Bucky was removing the worn pair of leather gloves he'd donned that morning, metal fingers reaching out for a new one and shining distractedly bright in the stores cheap lighting. The silver disappeared into the black leather quickly, hand flexing and twisting like he was testing the limits of the material.

Slowly, she took the bag the woman was _still_ holding out. "Stark prototype," Samara whispered, feeling her cheeks ache as she offered up the brightest smile humanly possible. "He uh, lost his arm during his last tour in the military. Don't uh, don't, you know – don't bring it up," she hurried to add, catching blue eyes. Seeing her, the man started heading their way, long legs eating up the distance. "He's sensitive about it."

"What do you mean sensitive about – "

"Sammy," Bucky cut in, nodding once to the lady in greeting before holding out the gloves he'd tried. "Can you get this?"

The doctor nodded wildly, taking the leather from his hands and thrusting it out. "These too then," she announced a little too loudly, laughing afterwards in hopes of dispelling the awkward air. "You sure you want black? Brown might be a nice change of pace."

Bucky frowned at her, head tilting in his silent way of asking what the bloody hell she was doing this time. "I want black," he stated dryly. "When you're done I'll meet you by the car. Don't take too long."

Samara smiled. "Course, Buck."

With another polite nod – oh, she'd taught him so well – he moved towards the front of the store, back out the door he'd only just entered in. She watched him go with a nervous edge to her smile. Something had happened in the past hour. Something to do with the doctor in the programme they were here for, and something he wasn't happy about.

She sighed, swiping her card and typing in her pin. He'd tell her once she was in the car, once he thought no one would listen in and once he'd ran it through his mental _will she scream and run away_ filter.

"Thanks," Samara said distractedly, taking the second offered bag. "Have a nice day, yeah?"

The woman stared at her for a few seconds, mouth moving soundlessly before she smiled. "Thank you," she replied quickly before sighing. "Hey, uh, everything okay? At home, I mean."

 _Everything okay at what now?_

Samara looked up in confusion. "Home? Yeah, I mean, my coffee machine is missing but whatever," she gave a forced laugh, rolling her eyes like it was a shared inside joke. "Um, yeah, I'm gonna go because I'm really uncomfortable. You, have a nice day. Me, I'm going out the door."

Giving an aborted attempt at a wave, she tightened her grip on the bags and practically ran from the store. Bucky was waiting, and he didn't seem to be in a good mood. Which meant chocolate milk and pancakes for lunch. _Healthy_. Her diet was really going incredibly.

If she'd had the time to stay however, the time to maybe look past her own discomfort and look closer at the eyes watching her, she would've seen the woman struggle with a decision. She maybe would've smothered the slight prickling worry gnawing at the other woman's gut, maybe eased a panicked thought and nipped it in the bud before it grew further.

She maybe would've been able to stop the phone call.

* * *

 _There's no harm in this. He can't really do any damage, and I'll pull my punches. He needs this. Think of it as training._

Steve finished wrapping his hands, flexing his fingers almost idly as he watched the other man move from the corner of his eye. He didn't know what the billionaire was trying to achieve – stretching maybe? – but the smooth shift of muscles made one thing very clear to the soldier. He wouldn't get injured, not badly, but the next hour wasn't going to exactly _tickle._

Cracking his neck, the brunet looked his way with a grim smile, own hands wrapped in plain tape and chest free of its usual obnoxiously printed shirt. "So..." Tony started, throat moving in a quick swallow. "I take it you didn't know then?"

"I didn't know what?" Steve wondered aloud, assuming a traditional boxing stance.

Tony sent him a hard, unforgiving look. "Don't bullshit me, Rogers," he demanded, slowly raising his own hands in a mockery of the soldier's position. _"Did you know?"_

Beginning to circle around the ring, Steve didn't bother to try for a smile this time around. "I knew that _they_ were behind it," he admitted carefully, testing the other male by shifting forward suddenly. The genius danced back out of reach, hands clenching into proper fists. "But no, I didn't know Bucky was how they did it. Not until now. I found out seconds after you did."

Brown eyes narrowed dangerously. "You act like they used him," Tony grunted, one hand coming away to cautiously cut through the air between them. "Like he wasn't – wasn't home or something."

Steve leant back slightly at that, weighing up his options before shooting forward. His fist hit the other man's collarbone hard, and the wheezing breath made him wince in apology but he was already moving to land another. "He wasn't. It wasn't Bucky who killed your parents. It was the Winter Solider."

He felt the air around his face shift, the closed fist narrowly missing his chin as he darted back to avoid it. Tony didn't seem put out by the lack of an actual collision, his leg coming away in a very familiarly styled kick. As Steve stumbled back, a heel having connected with his stomach, he realised Natasha must have been teaching the man some of her tricks.

 _That's just great._

"You know," Tony breathed, barely giving the blond time to recover and ducking to deliver a sound punch to his ribs. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but last time I checked, your beloved Buckster _was_ the Winter Soldier. Same person under the mask, Rogers."

Steve hissed as the air was forced from his lungs, grabbing the man's hand next time it swung his way. "Consider this me correcting you," he started, using the momentum to his advantage and flinging the brunet over his shoulder. Tony hit the ground hard, another gasp tearing past his lips. "When you go out as Ironman, is it _you_ that kills the bad guys, or is it the suit?"

The billionaire rolled to avoid what would've been a kick to his sternum. "Pretty sure I'm the one calling the shots, not the suit," he chuckled mirthlessly, bursting back to his feet like he was spring loaded.

"Then think of it like this," Steve murmured, allowing the elbow to connect with his stomach, all so he could wrap both arms around the male from behind. "Bucky is – _was_ – their suit. He wasn't calling the shots."

Tony struggled hard, the heel of his foot cracking against the nearest bone. "My suit isn't sentient. It's what I made it to be."

Steve let out a grunt when the man's furious wiggling landed an unintentional blow. "And he was what they made him to be," he argued further, straining to keep a hold of the man. "They took him out Tony, shoved someone else back in."

The genius didn't bother to give him an answer, he only struggled harder.

Tightening his hold, Steve prepped them both to fall; hooking his leg around the brunets and taking the full brunt of the drop with his back. "Fine then. Do you blame Clint? Do you blame him for what he did under the influence of the sceptre? Do you blame Selvig for letting the portal open?" he listed, grinding his teeth when the man seemed to fight harder at the words. "It wasn't their fault any more than it was his. You can't play favourites like that, Tony, you can't blame him without blaming them."

Tony let out a wordless scream before giving up, panting against the hold and falling limp. "I really hate you," he muttered thickly, tense and awkward but no longer fighting. "I hate you so much."

Steve pretended to believe the words, just like he pretended not to see the perfect crystalline tear rolling down a tanned cheek. "I know," he whispered back, slowly releasing the vice grip. "And I know it hurts, I really do, but I can't let you hurt him back."

The back of the billionaires head hit his chest. "If he's anything like you, he'll probably let me do it," he grumbled, tapping the broad arm wrapped around his torso. "It's no fun if I'm _allowed_ to beat the shit outta him."

Helping the man roll to the side, Steve cracked a small smile and shook his head in reply.

"You think he remembers?" Tony posed the question so casually, eyes drilling holes in the ceiling and chest panting with the effort of catching his breath, that it was almost like he'd asked for something no more important than a weather update. "What he's done – what he did – do you think he remembers any of it?"

Steve winced. "If you were him, would you _want_ too?"

Rolling his head to the side, the blond watch the other man blink in silence. There was that conflict on his features again, but the anger was long gone; burnt out and as tired as the rest of him. "Nah, nah I wouldn't," Tony admitted, frowning as he turned to face blue eyes. "Think your war buddy's still in there though?"

"Yeah, I know he is," the soldier mumbled, taking in a deep breath. "I don't think he'll ever be _all_ there but I think Bucky is coming back. In pieces, you know?"

Tony made a small sound in his throat. "I still get one punch," he decided. "Minimum one."

Steve groaned. "Tony, man, come on."

"He killed my parents, letting me land one on him is the least he could do!"

It might have been the situation, or the words the other man had yelled, but the blond started laughing and once he did it was hard to stop. It was an honest to god, genuine laugh too – the type that made tears gather in the corners of his eyes, and his stomach ache. Through his own amusement, he noticed the brunet losing it too, mouth wide and hand slapping his legs.

Tony had a nice laugh...

"Whoo," the genius gushed, wiping his eyes. "That was good. Laughing 'bout homicide, good times. But seriously," he finished, quirking up a brow and grinning widely. "I get one punch. Suit optional. It really depends on how I'm feeling."

Steve shook his head, still chuckling. "Fine, but only one," he warned, prodding the man's shoulders before grunting painfully. "Laughing hurts more than it should. Think you broke something when you elbowed me."

Tony sent him an odd look. "Shit. I broke Captain America?"

The blond snorted. "You do know what this means, don't you?" he drawled, moving to unwind the tape from his hands and flop out more comfortably on the floor. "You have to take on the responsibility of the shield and Sam is going to kill you."

"The shield isn't a responsibility, it's a frisbee," Tony corrected, lips parting in a short yawn. "Sammy will forgive me."

Steve let out another snort, almost bursting into laughter again at the words. "Sammy? Don't let him hear you call him that. You'd never escape with all four limbs intact."

Tony made another sound, something quieter. "Sammy..." he muttered, closing his eyes.

Shaking his head, Steve looked back towards the ceiling, throwing the tape to the side and flinging out his arms with abandon. The fight hadn't been altogether that exhausting, it only lasted five minutes after all, but the emotions behind it had been. He hadn't been awake all that long, the day barely started, but he was about ready to crash again.

"Sam. Sam. Sam," Tony continued. "Sammy..."

"He can't hear you," Steve grumbled, peeking one eye open to watch the man. "Save it for when he can."

Tony's head turned his way, brown eyes not showing so much as a flicker of the previous exhaustion. _"If you touch Sam again Stark._ That's what he said to me – that's what Bucky said, right?"

"Yeah, that and something vaguely insulting about your father," Steve reminded him, narrowing his eyes at the calculating look decorating the brunet's features. "Okay, so that's the face you get when you've worked something out. Mind sharing?"

"Sam," Tony started. "Sam could be short for something."

Steve rolled his eyes but straightened up, pinning the man with an interested but impatient look. "That's why we've got Jarvis looking for other possibilities as well. Samuel, uh, Samantha too I guess, and uh..."

"Samara?"

Steve tensed.

"As in, Samara Masons?" Tony continued, shit eating grin growing steadily on his lips. "As in, the hot single doctor that was in our blind spot? The same one that even our dear Widow said was acting a little strangely?

The blond felt his eyes close. "Damn," he cursed. "Why didn't we – "

" _Sir?"_ Jarvis interrupted. _"I believe there's something you're going to want to hear."_

Tony shot to his feet, already moving to exit the boxing ring, one hand held behind him to help the blond. "What is it Jarv?" he demanded, ripping the bindings from his hands. "We're a little busy here."

" _A call just came in through the emergency channels. A woman wanted to report a possible domestic violence case."_

The genius pulled a face, wildly waving for the soldier to follow him as he ran from the room. It was hard to keep up, but the blond managed, almost having to break into a sprint to stay at his side. "And what does that have to do with anything?"

" _It was claimed that the victim was a female, late twenties with a 'busted face' and bruising on her neck. She was reported to be with a large male, with brown chin length hair and a 'Stark prototype' replacing his left hand. One the victim claimed he's lost during his time serving the army. The woman also claimed that the victim referred to him as; 'Buck.'"_

Both the men stopped, slowing their fast paced walk and staring at each other pointlessly. "Stark prototype? Clever cover," Tony muttered. "And bruising on her neck? Explains that scarf Natasha wouldn't shut up about."

Steve shook his head. "But..." he sighed, running a hand down his face. "Bucky wouldn't hurt her."

"You said so yourself, Cap. You didn't think he was all there," Tony gave a pained smile, hand coming up to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. "He's still collecting the pieces, remember? Maybe Bucky wasn't the one who hurt her. Maybe it was the Soldier?"

Meeting warm brown eyes for a few seconds helped more than he cared to admit. "Okay. Okay yeah," Steve straightened up, clenching his fists. "We taking the jet then? Or do you expect me to cling to your suit?"

* * *

 **Okay, so am I the only one who follows like, fan accounts on Instagram? I feel like I am. I'll be scrolling down my feed, and it'll be** _ **recipe, recipe, Bucky, fitness inspiration, Sebby Stan, food, Bucky, more food, more Sebby.**_

 **I'm not the only one right?**

 **Taila xx**


	26. Partners in crime

Something was wrong.

He'd said no to pancakes.

Who _did_ that?

"I can't believe you're doing this to me," Samara moaned, narrowing her eyes as she parked the car in an awkward squeeze. "You want something healthy – and I mean _salad healthy_ – for lunch. What, so I'm not even allowed pancakes anymore? They were the only things keeping me going."

The man beside her didn't even bother to spare her a glance. "I wanted something that wasn't deep fried or cooked in ten gallons of grease," he defended quietly, gloved hand roaming over his chin. His stubble was growing back quickly, a dark shadow already spreading out along his jawline and up towards his cheekbones. "Aren't you on a diet anyway?"

 _Ouch low blow..._

Pursing her lips, the woman bowed her head. "I guess it is getting warmer," she murmured. "What's the harm in eating something fresh? I'm starting to break out anyway, thanks to said _ten gallons of grease_."

Instead of smiling, or even letting out a small chuckle at her expense, Bucky snorted and turned to study the building they'd arrived outside in disinterest. It was impressive, intimidating, strange – practically everything the assassin hated in life but he looked almost _pleased_ to see it, crowds and all.

Fixing his sleeves with a small tug, he pointedly turned to watch her yank out the keys. "Uh huh."

Samara pretended not to notice his hand slinking towards the door handle. "You know," she started, shooting him the brightest smile she could manage. It hurt her cheeks and all he did was _blink_. "There's this food chain, all salads and crap – you'll love it. They're scattered about now, but I remember when they started their first shop, near my private practise. Found it by sheer coincidence. I use to have this assistant, swum in her perfume, I swear to god. Anyway, after she leaves, I open the window and this amazing – "

The car door slammed shut behind the male.

" – amazing how I'm so stupid. Thinking you actually care about my stories? Silly me," Samara finished on a dry chuckle, one hand rubbing at her eyes and creating sparks of colour behind her lids. Exhaustion was creeping up on her, rolling over her shoulders and down her spine like an icy drip. _"Damn."_

It had only been an hour. They'd only been separated for _one measly hour._ How could everything go wrong in such a short time? How could his mood go from the highest she'd seen, to the lowest in such a pathetic amount of time? What the hell had he'd seen while staking out the other doctor's residence? It had looked simple enough when she'd dropped him a few houses down; the typical red brick with a white fence and friendly dog. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would make him close down and shut her out.

Golden eyes flickered closed. How could she let him go on his own? When he'd announced it was a single man operation, she'd fought yeah, but she hadn't argued with anything more than a couple complaints. _Sure you can handle it, Barnes? The Winter Stalker now aye?_ Jokes and teasing comments. It was all she was good for, apparently.

Why didn't she push? Why did she let him go on his own...

A bang on the window made her start to the side, heart leaping to her throat. Blue eyes glared through the glass. "Are you coming or what?" Bucky demanded, not waiting for an answer as he moved out of sight.

Samara stared at the empty space he'd been, confusion littering both her smile and her thoughts. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

Hurrying to evacuate the car, she caught the edge of impatience lacing her companion's shoulders, features contorting as she locked up the vehicle. He really _was_ pissed, wasn't he? Bucky cocked his head to the side, watching her move from the corner of his eye before he started forward, emitting a confidence he'd never shown in crowds before. It was nice to see he was growing comfortable in a larger population, really it was, but it just wasn't so nice to see him gaining such a confidence simply so he could get away from her.

Juggling the weight of the keys in her hands, she sighed, watching his form stalk away from her with a sinking feeling in her chest. It wasn't like he hadn't kept things to himself before – cough winter soldier cough – he just had this habit of eventually sharing what was on his mind.

He didn't look to be in a sharing mood right now.

The doctor stayed three strides behind him as he headed towards the entrance, almost nervous to be in reach if he turned around. It was a little stupid of her, a little paranoid, but she wanted to give him space. Just because she was _allowed_ to touch now, didn't mean she always should.

Not that she didn't want too, of course, his arms were worthy of poems but when he was in a mood she'd probably loose her –

" – fucking head here, come on!"

Samara's head shot around at the loud curse, eyes landing on a younger looking guy laundering by the parking machines. His features were dark, pinched in irritation, and his hand was raking through his hair harshly. _Someone's having a bad day._ With the thought, she hesitated, but only for a second before she was changing her path so it would collide with his.

Usually she would've kept on walking, but she sided with him on the whole _it's a shitty day_ thing – plus, he had literally spoken her mind for her, and that created a special sorta bond between people.

Especially when they spoke your curse words for you.

"Having some trouble?" Samara smiled gently, clasping her hands as innocently as she could. The man looked agitated enough as it was, he didn't need someone mocking him. "I swear those things live to screw with humans. It's _skynet_ all over again."

Brown eyes studied her for a few seconds, judging her intentions, before the man cracked a smile back. "It won't take my card," he complained, waving the sheet of plastic around in emphasis. Seeing her attention had strayed to it, he moved closer and pushed it into the machine, only to have it instantly spat back out. "Damn it, see what I mean?"

Nodding, she pulled out her wallet. "Here, I should have some change..."

"Oh no, you don't have – " The coins were held out with another bright smile, and the man slowly held out his own hand. " – too... Are you sure? I don't have anything on me right now."

Samara shrugged away the uncertainty, gesturing to the machine with her head as she pocketed her wallet again. "Don't worry about it," she allowed, waving a hand. "Consider it my good deed for the day. Maybe now karma will have pity on me."

The man chuckled back, happily offering up the coins to the parking meter before taking back his ticket. "Thank you," he said genuinely. "It's my daughter's birthday today, and work made me late enough already. Add the time it's taken me to grab her present and the time it'll take me to get home? I'm gonna get the silent treatment for this."

"Kids, huh?" Samara giggled, shaking her head before a familiar feeling settled along the length of her spine. "Bucky?"

Seconds after the name hit the air, a warm hand curled around her forearm. "Samara," the man bit back, not looking her way but instead staring down the other male. "You really like to wander, don't you?"

The doctor gave a small shrug in response. "Sorry, but he was having a little trouble with the ticket reader," she explained, patting his hand almost consolingly. Whatever bloody territorial game he wanted to play could wait until later. "Thought he could use a hand. His daughter might be mad if he's any later to her birthday party."

Her polite laugh was cut short by a sharp tug on her arm. "You've helped," Bucky announced. "Come on, we're in a hurry."

"Have a good day!" Samara called out, offering up a quick wave before stumbling over her own feet. The grip on her arm was unrelenting and she made a small sound of protest, beginning to tug back. "Hey, hot-shot, let me go would you? You've given me enough bruises as it is."

Bucky dropped her arm like it burned, features contorting into something pained. "Sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to..." Finally, he turned to face her, but his eyes fell to her lips before drifting up to her eyes. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Barely resisting the urge to touch the wound, or the bruises colouring her chin, the woman nodded. "Whatever," she muttered, gently running a hand over her arm. It was a little tender, but it probably wouldn't bruise like her neck or lips. "I thought we were in a hurry? Not entirely sure why, but then again, you probably just don't wanna _share_ the information, right?"

Following her when she stormed through the main entrance, Bucky grabbed her hand, loosely lacing their fingers. "Sammy, hey, come on," he implored, slowing down so she was forced too as well. "I'm sorry."

"You've said that," Samara commented, anger already evaporating in the face of his big blues. "Buck, are you okay?"

The assassin let out a sigh, moving up to her side and leading them both forward at a sluggish pace. It wasn't hard to see the war behind his eyes, so she fell silent and instead shifted so her grip on his fingers was more solid, something that would take more effort to break. The small action seemed to help him, and he took in a short breath, looking down at the connection.

A thousand things flashed through his eyes in less than a second. Emotions, memories, thoughts. Too quick to be identified and too much to be addressed. Again, all she did was squeeze the metal beneath her palm.

"He has a daughter."

Samara looked back to blue eyes, cocking her head. "That man?" she questioned, blinking over her shoulder. "Yeah, I think so? He said he stopped here to grab her birthday present. Cute, huh?"

But he was already shaking his head. Slowing down their stride, she pulled him to the side, lifting a hand to cup his cheek before awkwardly taking it back. It seemed adorable when he did it, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone, but her hand seemed so pale and fragile compared to his darker tone and thicker stature.

"Peter Riley. He has a daughter, and a wife," Bucky declared, almost too loud and too sudden. "Files didn't say anything about a family."

 _A family?_

Samara bit her lip, not even bothering to wince when pain exploded along the skin. Now she understood. He'd gone to that house to find a way in, to find a way to get past security and locks, but he'd found something domestic and _normal_. There was a difference between agents who hid in a safe house, and a man who hid with a family in a picture perfect home. It was hard to call a father – one who had a daughter, a wife, a life – a terrible person.

Hard to call what you were doing reasonable.

"Okay, okay..." Samara closed her eyes, clapping his shoulders. "Okay, so what are you going to do? Wait until they leave or...?"

Blue eyes clashed with whiskey a little too harshly for her tastes. The colour was cold, lacking its usual warmth and something in her chest tightened to the point of pain at the sight. He didn't mean... he _couldn't_ mean...

Bucky lifted his chin, almost in challenge. "I'm going to do what I have too."

That was it? No denial, no argument. Just acceptance?

The laughter broke in her chest before it met the air, the sound strangled. "Bucky, come on, you can't..." Samara tried for a smile, tried to tell him that the joke was over, but he didn't smile back. "Bucky, it's a little girl? A kid? How could you..." The space between them grew as she stumbled back, the crowds around them not bothering with the apparently fighting couple in the corner.

He wouldn't. She'd read his files, maybe not all of them, and maybe not to great detail but he'd never seemed more ruthless then he did at that moment. His eyes were still cold as they watched her, tainted by an emotion she didn't bother to identify but still as solid as steel. He couldn't. She'd read his list of crimes, and none of them had children – not even as collateral damage. If anything – brainwashing or not – he'd gone to extreme lengths to avoid injuring someone who wasn't involved.

But now he was willing to hurt a little girl.

It was easy to loose him in the throng of people. He didn't understand the way such a large crowd moved, and she knew the terrain better than even he could ever hope too. Even with the tears blurring her vision, she managed to create distance, and by the time she'd gathered the courage to look over her shoulder for him – his dark head was long gone.

Ducking through a door that warned the public against through fare, she slumped against the wall, struggling to calm the rapid pace of her breathing. Every breath seemed a little too loud and a little too much, her throat and lungs burning with the weight of her own skin.

 _Panic attack. It's a panic attack. You know how to calm down, so do it._

Letting out a strangled whine, she slid down the wall, hiccupping lightly and closing her eyes. "You can breathe," she told the empty air around her, fisting her hands into the loose material of her shirt. It crumpled under her grip, but her nails still cut through, biting into her palms. "You can breathe. You can breathe. You _can_ breathe."

The words did little to alleviate the burning pressure in her chest, and a sob broke free before she could stop it, tears leaving tracks down her cheeks. _Please breathe, just in and out._ Forcing the exhale to last longer than a split second, she pushed the air through her lips before gently taking in a new lungful. Again, it burnt like acid, but again she repeated the notion.

In and out.

In and out.

Through the blur of tears, she saw movement, someone crouching near her outstretched legs. _That didn't take him too long._ Murmuring out a short apology, she hurried to wipe her eyes, unable to see through the salty water.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean too..." Samara faltered, recognizing that the shock of red hair didn't belong to _her_ assassin.

The strange woman – no, not strange, she was familiar – smiled at her softly, like she was talking to a spooked animal. "Hey there," she whispered, a gentle smile accompanying the words. "Just keep breathing okay, he can't get you here, I promise."

Samara studied the beautiful features, placing the red locks and coy smile in her memories. "Nina Adams," she muttered, eyes slowly widening as they took in the black cat suit and – and was that something glowing on her wrists?

The woman chuckled quietly, checking the area around them before looking back at the swollen eyes watching her person. "It's Natasha," she corrected, bowing her head once. "But yes, I did use that name when I saw you – both last week and a few years ago, actually. I never did thank you for the work you did, it was quite spectacular, if you don't mind my saying."

"S'okay," Samara whispered back. "Why are you here? _How_ are you here?"

Natasha again let out a smooth chuckle, the sound almost like melting butter. "You insult me," she teased almost playfully, and what? Since when did female assassins play with her? _Male assassins_ she was used too, but this?

The dark headed woman shrunk back slightly. "I didn't mean too?" she offered, eyes darting around for an escape. If this one was here, then so were the others. She had to get to Bucky – and she had to warn him and she had to get him away _and she had to keep him safe._ The good old captain might have been his old friend, but there was no way of telling how he'd go about helping his friend.

For all she knew...

Steve thought the only way to help him was by throwing his brain _back_ in a blender.

"Hey, you zoning out on me?" Natasha was gently cupping her shoulder, squeezing the flesh as soothingly as she could. "How are you feeling? Your lips bleeding a little sweetie, did you reopen the wound?"

Samara resisted the urge to snap when a finger brushed along her lower lip. "I'm a lip biter," she muttered darkly, watching the pale eyes for any hint of real remorse. It was feigned pretty well, props to the woman for that, but she lacked the genuine empathy she would've felt if she actually cared. "It's a bad habit, I know. Mother's already made sure I'm aware of that."

Natasha gave another cute chuckle and damn that sound, she hated it already. "How did you get away from him?" she asked, now moving to study the fading yellow skin on her neck. "I figured he'd be watching you closely since you're both in public."

"Um..."

Why was she treating this like a hostage situation? It wasn't like – shit, it was _exactly_ like a hostage situation.

Samara made a small sound in her throat, reaching up to try and find some leverage to stand. The red head helped, boosting her up by her elbows, and continuing to smile like the world wasn't ending. Her feet didn't really... listen at first, but soon she was able to stand without needing the help, thighs shaking under the weight of her own body.

"... I don't know," she finished, trying not to let the question mark she heard in her head sound out loud. "He just wasn't... he just wasn't paying attention? He's not used to crowds, you know?"

And _why_ did she say that? Why would she admit to one of his weaknesses?

Natasha cooed softly. "Okay, listen to me sweetie," she started, leading her towards the door she'd came through. Her hand moved up and down her back in swift, soothing circles. "I want to get you out of here, but there's no exit through these halls. I have to take you out through the main entrance, but I promise he won't see you again, and I promise he won't grab you. The other people with me are closing in on him right now."

The words caused a shock of fear to dance down her spine, and she barely managed to avoid speaking out against it. "Other people with you?" she echoed, letting the woman lead her like cattle back into the crowd.

"Do you know Captain America? Iron man?" Natasha grinned, no doubt expecting she was calming the others nerves.

But Samara felt anything but calm. If she was being honest, she felt the tendrils of panic grab her again. What was she against superheroes? She'd do nothing but get in the way if a fight broke out, and it wasn't like running away or dramatically escaping was something she could do right either. She had money and some smarts about the new world.

But nothing about _his_ world.

" – no, she's with me," the voice was familiar, and it took her a few seconds to realise it was the red heads. "I've got her Sam. She's just a little banged up, lips a right mess. Barnes did a real number on her face."

Samara's eyes narrowed, almost dangerously at the insinuation. They thought Bucky did this on _purpose_? That he'd hurt her?

"If he wanted to hide, maybe he shouldn't have aimed for her face."

The doctor wasn't going to be any real help in a fight. With an opponent facing her, ready to fight back, she would be royally screwed. The knowledge about blocking, or dancing out of reach didn't come to her as easily as medical things did. Knowing where to hit was different then knowing how to hit. But that being said, as a doctor, she knew the perfect amount of pressure to apply – enough to knock someone out but not enough to cause long term damage.

It wasn't like she'd put that into practise before though, and she had a feeling that if someone was facing her, fists up and ready, she wouldn't focus on how hard she was hitting.

But then again...

Natasha wasn't really _facing_ her, was she?

* * *

 _She's gone..._

Bucky heaved in some air, trying to catch his breath after running the length of the shopping centre for what felt like the hundredth time. But no matter how many times he passed the same shops, ran into different people, muttered repeated apologies – he couldn't find his doctor.

He'd checked the parking lot after the first ten minutes of their separation, thinking she'd gone back there to either stew or leave him stranded, but the car was still sitting between white lines. After that, he'd even scoped out the restrooms, gathering the courage to ask some women if his girlfriend had wandered in there, telling them she might be upset because they'd had a fight.

Every one of them had smiled at him in sympathy, but every one of them had told him _no_.

"Damn it Sammy, where did you go?" Bucky murmured, moving to slump against the display window of the nearest store. From the corner of his eye, he could see gold and silver flicker enticingly through the glass, gems sparking up with the light.

Absently he shifted to lean against the window, watching the colours dance with bored fascination. It was a few minutes after he'd let his eyes start wandering that he saw it, the sheen of colour making him blink in surprise and straighten up. Curiously, he read over the price tag, studying the design and gem name before looking back to the necklace.

"Golden zircon?" he echoed, pursing his lips at the silver chain and tear drop cut.

The colour was hypnotising, golden, but with flecks of both yellow and amber lacing through it and he found he couldn't look away. The shade was as stunning as her eyes...

"You've known the poor girl for a week, please don't tell me you're eyeing up those engagement rings."

Bucky tensed but otherwise didn't outwardly react to the voice by his right side, instead looking at the reflection for the features of the man beside him. It took him less than a second to place the brown eyes and sculpted facial hair, and the darker part of his mind howled in anger. _Stark._

Before he could act, another voice sounded on his other side. "He's probably looking at something for himself," Steve announced, smile careful but fond as he nudged the assassin's side. The action was painfully familiar. "I say go for sapphire, Buck, it'll match your eyes."

 _You're surrounded._

"Not for me," Bucky shrugged, trying to act nonchalant as he pointed a gloved hand to the necklace he'd been eyeing up. As though it knew it was being watched, the gemstone twinkled in the shifting light. "That one. For the doctor."

Tony whistled. "Good eye there solider..." he complimented, peering closer. The man seemed utterly content, unbothered to be so close to a deadly being, but there was a tightness to his lips that betrayed his discomfort. "But why are you looking at jewellery anyway? You two lovebirds get into a fight, huh? I buy Pepper something shiny whenever I screw up too."

Bucky blinked. "Are you and Pepper going steady as well?"

The genius looked to him in sheer confusion, eyes curious but simmering with barely restrained anger. "Wait, what?" he grumbled, looking the man up and down. "You're going steady with who?"

It was the hidden fury that sparked the memory, and the images hit him like a truck, almost making him topple backwards in shock. The lone road, the single car, the boot full of serum. Inwardly, the assassin screamed but outwardly he didn't do anything more than grunt. "So you know then?"

Tony narrowed his eyes. "I know _what_ , exactly?" he demanded, taking one imposing step forward.

Steve was there though, presence about as subtle as a gunshot in the silence. "Tony," he warned quietly, large hand pressing against the blue circle situated in a broad chest. "Do you think you could get that necklace for us? I'll pay you back, I promise."

The man looked between the super soldiers, chest rumbling in a growl before he stormed into the shop without looking back. Oh, he knew all right. Bucky made a small sound in throat, refusing to mourn what he'd done now and instead quirking a brow at the blond beside him. "So..."

"What are you doing Buck?"

The assassin let out a sigh, head tipping back to stare at the ceiling. "I remember telling you not to come after me, Stevie," he whispered, shoving both hands into the pocket of his hoody.

"There was a call," Steve started, mimicking his posture and pushing his hands into his pant pockets. "A woman wanted to report a possible domestic abuse situation. A man with a metal arm and a woman who looked like she'd been beaten," he turned at the words, features disappointed. "You hitting defenceless women now, Buck?"

Bucky growled. "I didn't hit her, at least not on purpose," he snapped, turning so he faced his enemy – _his friend_ – head on. "I had a night terror all right, and she has this habit of trying to help me. Why does everyone think I'd hurt her? I get that you think I'm a monster Stevie, and I'm not arguing but – "

"You're not a monster," Steve cut in sharply, looking down bashfully when a salesperson reached into the display. The necklace was taken and offered to the smiling billionaire as they stewed in silence. "Doctor Samara Masons is on leave, according to her office. Family emergency."

"I know. I'm the one who made her apply for leave. Didn't want her getting in trouble."

Steve's brows climbed up towards his hair line, eyes coloured in interest. "You don't want your hostage getting into trouble?" he repeated almost dumbly. "That's new. Usually you use them to avoid getting into trouble yourself, you know?"

Bucky snorted. "Hostage?" he echoed. "Cute, punk, but you're wrong. Sammy's free to leave whenever the hell she wants, she just doesn't wanna. Girls a damn thorn in my side like you wouldn't believe." The chuckle that left his lips was almost unbidden, and not even the genius storming back out of the store managed to kill his smile.

"I got your damn necklace," Tony mumbled, shoving the bag against his chest.

Lifting a hand to take it, Bucky smiled at it stupidly. "I like her Stevie..." he admitted, hooking the ties around his wrist. "I really like her. They didn't make 'em like that back in our day."

Steve smiled back, equally as carefree. For a second, they weren't their titles – weren't the Winter Soldier and Captain America – and they weren't in a potential battlefield. They were the best friends from Brooklyn. The two idiots who got into trouble in every back alley and made blanket forts to pass the time.

"Barnes has a crush?" Steve mocked. "Never thought I'd see the day."

Bucky let out an obedient chuckle at the words, pulling out the box so he could study the necklace closer. It really was beautiful, and he wanted to give it to the doctor, to watch her eyes light up a similar shade. But what was the likelihood he'd have the chance? Sighing, he snapped the lid shut. "You have her don't you?" he questioned, dropping the box back into the bag. "Samara. She's okay, right?"

"She's okay," Steve promised, reaching up to clasp a hand around a metal shoulder. If he felt the difference, he didn't show it. "Natasha's got her, and she's getting her somewhere safe. Did you – did you wanna see her?"

The assassin made a small sound, closing his eyes and tightening his grip on the bag. He did want to see her again, could feel the urge burning in his chest, but he didn't think it was a sentiment the good doctor shared with him. He'd seen the disgust in her eyes as plainly as he could feel it swirling around in his head. He'd seen the exact moment she realised she wasn't dealing with some innocent person lost in the war, but instead the murderer guilty of starting it.

Bucky had honestly prayed he wouldn't be around when she'd made the discovery.

"You're gonna take me in too, right?" he whispered, searching for clear blue eyes. "Maybe lock me up somewhere, dig around in my brain for a few years until you know all you need?"

Steve looked horrified. "Bucky, _no_ , I wouldn't – "

"I found one of the doctor's that helped do this to me," he continued idly, like the topic was as simple as the weather. "Fucking bastard has the good life now, you know? The one we were told to want when we were kids – white fence, nice car, an even nicer wife. He's part of some death cult for the odd fifteen years, but he gets out with the whole package and then there's you and me. Both heroes who apparently died for our country, only to wake up in a fresh hell with people telling us what to do and how to do it."

The blond didn't seem to have the words, head bobbing up and down in mute agreement. His hand lifted to rake through is hair, eyes dropping to take in the flooring beneath them.

Bucky didn't stop there. "I was so pissed when I saw that, you know? When I saw that all the good I'd done meant shit now that I'd done some bad. Hell, it wasn't even me who did it but now I'm being chased to the ends of the earth by my best friend and his new team," he chuckled dryly, not sure how he managed the sound. "Never thought I'd miss the old days."

"What are you gonna do to the doctor, Buck?"

The assassin shrugged. "I just need him to tell me something," he admitted. "Ain't a big deal or anything. And I'm not involing his wife and kid either, so don't go all patriotic on me, Stevie."

Steve nodded slowly. "We can help you," he revealed, looking to the billionaire and then back to blue eyes. "We can help you. We have resources and information – all invaluable to whatever you're trying to do."

Whatever he was trying to do? They must have known about the safe houses, and he'd told them bluntly why he was here, so there really wasn't much question about _whatever he was trying to do_. Bucky frowned, straightening up threateningly. "I'm trying to take down what's left of Hydra, what the hell do you think?"

"Then let us help," Tony interrupted, eyes steely but not harsh. "We're working towards the same thing here, Sergeant. Don't you think it would be better if we pooled our resources together? We could hit them harder and faster. Cover all exits. Overrun them."

Bucky stared at the man silently for a few seconds, mouth opening to say –

 _"Bucky!"_

His lips snapped shut at the loud call. That wasn't his voice, was it? It was too smooth, too high, too feminine. The words also weren't what he'd been hoping to say either, so yeah, it _definitely_ wasn't him. But then who...

Bucky turned, both brows slowly lifting at the woman running straight for him at a speed he was almost impressed by. "I thought you said Natasha had her?" he murmured to the man beside him, speaking from the corner of his lips. "I don't know abut you, but I'm not seeing the red head anywhere."

Samara started slowing down, eyes flicking to the newcomers as she skidded to a halt almost comically. She hadn't reached them yet, still standing a few feet away, so why had she stopped?

The assassin grew almost nervous as she stared at him in panic. "Stay here," he instructed the superheroes, letting concern wash over his features. "Somethings wrong, and you'll only make her nervous. Let me talk to her."

Stalking forward, he was pleased to note the woman didn't scurry away or avoid him, instead one hand coming away to grip his when he was within reach. "Buck? You're okay? Why – why are you okay? The assassin woman person said they had you?" she rushed out, checking him over with a professional eye before emotion flooded through the colour. "You are okay, right?"

Bucky gave her a small smile. "It takes more than two people to take me down," he promised indulgently before the smile dropped. "Speaking of, what are they both doing? Watching us?"

Her eyes darted away. "Yeah."

Gently, he pulled her in a for a hug, resting his chin on her shoulder. "What did you do to the red head?

Samara made a sound into his skin, body shifting as she shrugged. "She tried to take me out of the building," she muttered, voice thick. "She was on the phone to some guy, and she was talking about how you'd hit me. They think you did it on purpose. I uh, I knocked her out. Glass vase to the back of the head, but she was already stirring by the time I was running."

"She won't be too far behind you then, and neither will the mall security," Bucky realised, nodding shortly. "Steve wants to help me take Hydra down. Said he has resources I could use."

"Do you trust him?"

Bucky closed his eyes. "I want to trust him," he whispered, moving back and cupping the woman's cheeks. "But I can't bring him in on this, Sammy. There are too many reasons and not enough time to rationalise them all."

The doctor gave him a smile, one he only ever saw in reflections or when she thought he was asleep. "He's looking away now, blushing at his feet and the other guy's looking at his phone. I know there's one more – whoever Natasha was on the phone too – but I don't know where he is or what he looks like. The main entrance is around that corner and I'm almost certain they came alone."

Grinning, Bucky pulled back completely and gripped her hand. "So, you asked me to teach you how to assassin right?" he commented, swinging their arms comically. "Lesson two – how to run away."

"Bitch please, I know how to run away. How do you think I deal with all my problems?"

Bucky sobered up slightly. "You're stuck with me from here on out, you know? There's no way you can get out scot free if we do this. Are you okay with that?" he demanded, tilting up her chin with one hand. "You're about to become an accomplice."

Samara nodded, reaching up to press an innocent kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I feel like I'm in some crime book or something?" she revealed, wrinkling her nose almost playfully. "Or one of those movies like _Mr and Mrs Smith_ ; only we're not trying to kill each other and I don't have the cheekbones of Angelina Jolie."

"This is a really badly written book then," Bucky murmured pointedly. "Still looking away?"

Checking, the doctor nodded, her lips curving up into a very devious smirk. "I think Steve saw me kiss you," she snorted, eyes rolling skywards. "He's the same shade as a tomato. It's embarrassing."

Bucky chuckled before he could stop himself, absently making sure he had a firm grip on both his doctor and the necklace. He was still hoping to give it to her after all. No sense wasting money. "Boy needs to get laid," he mumbled. "On my count."

"If you say I have to run on the count of three, I'm gonna start now and just leave you here."

 _"One..."_

"I don't think you heard me."

 _"Two..."_

"Barnes, I swear to god, I will leave you here to face blondies patriotic wrath, so help me."

 _"Three!"_

* * *

 **Bucky, how on earth did you know this was a really badly written book? It's almost like the author made you say that, what?**

 **I am so sorry for missing an update, and I'm sorry if this chapter seems a little weird. I felt awkward writing the Bucky/Steve/Tony interactions and I couldn't get Bucky's thought process down like usual. It's been hectic for me today, and I'm a little fried.**

 **Taila xx**


	27. Assassin lesson number two

As it turned out, she wasn't meant to actually start _running_ on three.

According to the instructions whispered in her ear, the assassin rules stated you needed to start slow – walk away into the crowd and loose whoever it was you were running from. Gain some ground. When you couldn't see your pursuers anymore, that was when you started to speed up and focused more on creating distance rather than distraction.

 _Because_ , the only actual assassin had breathed in her ear, _if you start running flat out, attention is usually quick to follow._ And in their situation attention wore spandex tights and lugged about an oversized frisbee for a living.

And that wrapped up the end of lesson two – running away doesn't always mean _running away._

Practically tripping over own feet as she was dragged bodily through the main entrance, the doctor felt her muscles scream. "Can we please stop running now?" she begged, moaning when the man only started forward again, her shoulder popping out of place with the sudden tug. "Hey now, ow, I need that arm to drive, gorgeous. And we're not getting matching metal arms no matter how nicely you ask, so let's leave it connected to my body, thank you."

Bucky made a sound in response, checking the sides of the building before leading them further into the parking lot. It was about as busy as one could expect, the odd person milling about their car or walking towards the mall, but she still looked to him for approval. He'd slowed considerably, eyes narrowed and shoulders tensing upwards. "Someone was talking to Romanov? On the phone?"

 _Romanov?_

"You mean the red head?" Samara tried gently, breathing out when the man nodded wildly. "Oh yeah, um, she called him Sam? So apparently I have a twin now, which is great. This uh, this twin isn't super though, right?"

Bucky only pursed his lips, and she could almost see the moment he started rifling through memories. "I _know_ that name..."

The doctor opened her mouth, ready with a sarcastic comment as per usual – _of course he knew that name, it was hers first_ – but trouble found them before she could even think to voice it. Surprisingly, it wasn't the shield or the peeved red head, and hell, it wasn't even a flying metal suit painted obnoxiously bright colours. But it was still trouble, and it still came from where she was least expecting it.

Above.

Bucky grunted when the heel connected with his back, body soaring forward to collide with the asphalt before rolling to a rough stop. He must've dropped her hand at the initial hit – the impact sending her forward, but only onto her knees; the stones biting into the skin as she frantically looked to find what had hit them.

The man only looked down at her for a split second, red visor glittering in the light, before all his attention was on the assassin. His posture was ready and practically begging for a fight, but at the same time, the sharp twist to his lips looked almost exhausted by the mere thought.

"So, you must be the infamous twin I keep hearing about?" Samara muttered, letting out a hiss as she pushed back onto both feet. The muscles trembled under the weight, and she wobbled dangerously, but the newcomer automatically reached out a hand to stop the wavering. It was about then that she noticed he was armoured, heavily so, and that two steel wings broke the metal on his back. "Whoa, dude, sweet ride."

The darker man tensed further when the assassin let out a pained sound, regaining his bearings. "Sweeter than yours," he replied quickly, hooking a hand around her elbow and tugging backwards. "Barnes, I'm gonna need you to come quietly."

Samara snorted. "Oh he'll come quietly, trust me. Everything he does is done quietly. The man is an assassin remember?"

The man with wings – _wings honestly?_ – seemed to falter at her lack of a damsel in distress attitude, so to speak. A confused and rather hard glared pinned her down. "You seem a little too comfortable with that knowledge," he noted absently, a small sound breaking his disinterested demeanour. "Quiet, eh? And that's why you could never be an assassin."

A faint growl sounded behind her as she cocked a brow back, irritation lining the action. Dude with wings was rude. "I don't like you," she decided firmly, nodding once before pointedly trying to take her arm back. Dude with wings also didn't understand boundaries. "Um, no, this arm is mine. Get your own."

What was it with people and trying to rip her arm from her shoulder today?

Her twin narrowed his eyes, the action barely visible through the dark red glass of his visor. "Oh no, you're coming with," he declared, now not even bothering to act subtle and openly yanking her back towards him. "I need leverage over mister broody over there."

Samara followed his line of sight, annoyance flickering to life in her gut. "Hate to break it to you, but he's mine too. You want an assassin? I left one on the floor back in the mall. Should be a nice selection of vases next to her if you wanna get her something pretty," she offered, giving up a bright grin at the same time. "Come to think of it, maybe don't. They might bring back some bad memories for her."

Birdman took a deep breath, and she'd been around enough people to know he was trying to calm down, irritated by her constant stream of words. After a few seconds of her smile, and his flaring nostrils, he regained his mind enough to snap out; "You're the one who hit her?"

"Yup," Samara allowed, popping the last letter almost childishly. "I won't be the one to hit you though, he'd be mad if I robbed him of the opportunity."

Confusion was quick to replace the irritation. It lasted all of three seconds before he managed to catch the sound of rapid footsteps, the confusion swept from his features. "Oh shi – " he started, throwing up a hand when a silver fist swung his way. Unlike the assassin though, he didn't let her go when he stumbled, and with a yelp she was thrown back with him. "Barnes don't – I don't wanna have to do anything I'll regret."

Bucky looked wild, eyes flicking between the man's shaded visor and the arm he'd wrapped around the doctor. "Using her as a shield?" he snorted, apparently unimpressed with the man's antics. It was easy for her however, to see the panic gnawing at his lips. "At least Hydra weren't cowards."

The arm around her torso tightned out of reflex, and she grunted slightly, metal biting into soft skin. "Watch it, birdbrain. I'm fragile."

The man scoffed. "I know, and so does Barnes – seeing as he fucked up your face," he bit back, and she could almost picture the sardonic grin. "So as long as I've got you, I've got him. He's not going to make a move if you're at risk."

Samara pulled a face. "Bitch please, hell yeah he would," she chuckled, shaking her head and winking at blue eyes. "He made the move to whack me one before, so I don't think he cares too much about the risk I'm at now. Also, you're one of the good guys. You're not going to hurt someone you consider an innocent and sleep well at night."

And why was the arm tightening?

"I don't consider you an innocent," Birdman revealed. "You're helping him. So I'll do whatever works and get you both in custody," he finished, and shocking everyone, pressed a few buttons on his wrist. A high pitched whine sounded, but the doctor didn't want to know what the code he'd punched in had activated. "Barnes, we're leaving. With or without you."

Bucky cocked his head slightly, still hunched over and ready to fight whenever the need arose. "Pathetic," he snorted, but straightened, apparently giving up as he lifted both hands.

The doctor only bit her lip, tasting the dried blood from before as she looked down. They couldn't give up now. Bucky needed whatever that other man could tell him, that other doctor, and he couldn't get it with the superheroes hanging over his shoulder. He needed this, and he needed her to help him get it. She couldn't leave him now.

 _Hell. We're going to jail anyone, honey, lets make it worthwhile._

Stumbling back as she was led away from the assassin, and towards the mall again, she caught something that almost made her cackle. "I like the armour," she murmured quietly, a smile tugging at her lips. "Nice design. Stark tech right?"

"Yeah, Stark tech. It can hold its own against metal fists any day," the man informed her smugly, wrist still raised and arm still holding her shoulders. The grip hadn't so much as _loosened_ in the past few minutes of playground taunting. "So I don't think your buddy's gonna find a weak spot."

Samara chuckled, shrugging as much as she could. "I don't think he will," she admitted. "Mostly 'cause I found it first."

Curling her fingers into a fist, she raised her hand as much as she could, bending her arm at the elbow before crashing it back down to hit flesh. It took less than a second, but the man let out a pained sound, collapsing over and cradling the bruising skin between his legs. As soon as the arm around her had fallen away, she was dragged away and held behind a broad shoulder.

Bucky was grinning. "That was a low blow," he revealed, walking them backwards as the man groaned on the ground. "But I don't think I've ever been so proud of you in my life."

"Hmm, I'm happy I've earned your approval," Samara muttered, tugging harshly on his arm. "But we need to go. I can hear the cavalry and frankly, I'm not keen to try that hit on Ironman. He's armoured everywhere. I'll break my hand before I break his pride." Pulling harder on him, she started leading them back towards the car, already breaking out into a run.

Luckily, the assassin didn't see the point in hitting someone who was down, and was happy to follow after her, one hand in the centre of her back. They were almost at the car when he let out a sharp curse. "Shit, I forgot something. Get in the car."

Samara blanched. "Where are you going? We're running _away_."

But the man was already sprinting back towards their tiny battlefield, moving faster than she thought humanly possible as he bent to scoop something up from the ground. _What the fuck?_ Tearing her eyes away, she threw her body into the car and slammed on the pedal, sending it flying backwards. As she hit the breaks, changing gears, a strong form was dropped into the passenger seat.

"You didn't even have time to miss me," Bucky breathed, checking over his shoulder. "Alright, I see blond hair. Go!"

As they tore out of the lot – Samara praying to every deity she knew that she wouldn't crash – she took a few seconds to peek his way. "You went back for a bag?" she questioned. "What if the bird dude stood up and started kicking your ass?"

"One guy in a chicken costume? Please." Bucky made a disbelieving sound, lifting up the bag and smiling at it. "This was important. I'll show you later," he promised, shifting to place it at his feet. "But for now, we're going to the doctor's house. I told them his name, so if we don't get to him now they'll beat us to the punch."

Samara nodded in understanding. "And we'll lose our lead," she murmured, biting her lip. "It's only twelve past twelve, so the, uh the daughter will probably still be in school or kindy, or..."

Warmth spread along her outer thigh, the metal fingers surprisingly heated. "Samara..."

"I know you wouldn't do it," she sighed, slowing down in the thick wave of cars. "I do, really, but I panicked. I panicked and I ran, and it was so stupid of me, and I'm sorry." The familiar sting in her eyes was back, threatening to ruin her composure and she glanced his way again. "Bucky, I'm really sorry. Please forgive me."

Bucky's smile was softer than silk. "Hey now," he soothed, reaching up with his flesh hand to wipe at her eyes. "It's okay. I know everything is seeming a little scary right now. It's just the adrenaline leaving your system. You're gonna be a little shaky."

Now that he said it, she realised her hands were trembling on the wheel, the muscles in her legs spasming. "Shit."

"You were incredible," he announced, hovering close by as he distracted her mind. "I didn't think to look for a weakness like that. I was trying to watch behind him for the others, and trying to think of a way to get you away from him without him hurting you." His smile faded slightly, lips thinning into a white line. "Every time I took a step forward though, he took one back. If you hadn't hit him, I don't think..."

It was the doctor's turn to smile and ease his nerves, risking a hand away from the wheel to shift a wild lock of brown away from his face. "We did pretty good, hm? A good team. Better than Batman and Robin."

Confusion littered blue eyes. "I don't know those people?" Bucky admitted slowly, wiggling back until he could slither on his seat belt. "Do you remember where the doctor lives? The sooner we get there, get what we want and get out, the better."

"Will he even be home?" Samara ventured.

His stubble rasped as metal fingers ran over it, stroking the length of his jawline. "Most likely. He didn't seem to be getting ready for work when I watched him this morning. If anything, I think he might work from home. I'm a little worried about the wife though. If she's still there, I don't want her hearing too much, but at the same time, if he's not willing to talk she could be useful."

Closing her eyes against the mental images, the doctor swallowed down bile. "Hurt her to get him to talk?" she whispered meekly. It would be the quickest, most efficient way to get what they wanted, and she knew that, she did, but she didn't like it. "Buck, do you have too? I mean..."

"I only need to make the threat, Sammy, I don't need to go through with it," Bucky cooed, hand splaying out over her leg again. "He used to watch over me. He knows how ruthless the soldier could be. I doubt it'll even come to threats."

Pulling onto a quieter street, and habitually checking the rear view mirror, she gave a quick smile. "It's okay. We're okay," she promised, taking in a calming breath. "Did you want me to come in or...?"

Bucky cocked his head. "Come in," he decided. "And once I get what we need, we're going back to the hotel."

"But..."

The assassin waved a hand. "I know," he allowed. "But you're going to call the police and say you saw a man with a metal arm breaking into someone's house. Once you've made the call, I won't have long to get the information I need, but then we're gone. The time it'll take them to get there, and then question him before finally heading to the hotel should be enough."

Samara clicked her tongue. "And if they split up?" she challenged.

"I can take down maybe one or two of them easily enough," Bucky nodded. "If it comes to that, I'll knock 'em out and we'll leave. Hopefully the location the doctor gives me isn't too far away."

"Okay," Samara wrinkled her nose, reaching down to quickly squeeze the hand on her thigh. Before she could place it back on the wheel however, the man had turned his palm over and laced their fingers together. "Okay so you'll knock 'em out, and I'll punch 'em in the nuts. Damn we're good at this crime fighting thing, dude. It's beautiful."

Bucky let out a low chuckle. "Partner's in crime?"

"Partner's in crime, gorgeous."

* * *

By the time they'd stumbled out the entrance, their teammate was on the ground and their quarry was long gone.

"Okay so how?" Tony started, bending over to mock the man but not help him up. "How did a hundred-pound woman manage to take you down? Honestly. I'm so disappointed in you," he sighed, shifting to drop onto the ground like a lazy child.

Sam let out a groan. "You forgot to put armour on the most important part'a me," he slurred, looking up with a pained grimace. It was about then that they realised what it was that took him down, all of them letting out sympathetic moans. "I want an armour upgrade when we get back to the tower. No complaints Stark, this one was on your lacklustre designs."

Before the billionaire could bite out a scandalised reply, Steve cut in with a weary expression. "So we lost them again, then?"

Tony's attention shifted to him. "Apparently," he admitted, shrugging once before making grabby motions with his hands. The blond sighed but moved towards him, bending down to help him up. "Sorry too, by the way."

Steve shrugged. "You guys heard from Natasha?" he questioned instead, not wanting to linger on the topic of their fourth failed lead. His blood boiled when he'd realised that every _failure_ hadn't been because the lead was dead, but instead because they hadn't accounted for the doctor. "I thought she had the woman?"

From the ground, their other teammate spoke up. "We were talking on the phone when there was a commotion and she stopped replying. I went to where she'd last said she was, found her on the ground. That fucking chick had shattered a vase over her head," he snapped, fuming at the thought. "She was on her feet when I reached her, but there's an open wound on the back of her head. Might need stitches, I don't know."

"Shit..." Tony breathed. "And here I was thinking the doctor was the victim here. She seems savage."

Steve ran a hand over his mouth. "She seems pretty loyal to Bucky too," he pointed out. "Which is a little strange, don't you think? It's only been, what, a little under two weeks maybe since we started looking for him?"

Tony opened his mouth before snapping it shut, eyes confused and posture hesitant. It wasn't until the blond smiled and encouraged him with a nod, that he said what was on his mind. "When I mentioned how I used to buy things for Pepper..." he muttered slowly. "He asked if we were going steady too. Does that mean... I mean, it can't right?"

Blue eyes lit up. "I saw a couple in the hotel back in New York," Steve gushed, running a hand through his tousled locks. "They'd been, well, in the elevator and I didn't want to intrude so I backed up. It would make sense if they were together!"

"Yeah, but for how long?"

All eyes turned as the red head limped into view, her features contorted. "Natty?" Tony perked up, jogging to her side and swatting her hands away to check the injury. "Damn, you're really bleeding. But it doesn't look too deep."

The female assassin nodded her thanks, allowing the other man to probe the damage. "Did they know each other before this?" Natasha questioned, looking to the fallen soldier on the ground and snorting. "It's not _impossible_ that two people would like each other after two weeks, but the situation is a little strange. Then again, we could be looking at Stockholm Syndrome."

Steve winced. "That we could be..." he agreed, nodding. "But why would she try to get away from us? We're here to help, both of them, so wouldn't she leap on that opportunity rather than fight her way out?"

"Depends," Natasha narrowed her eyes.

The blond soldier felt his own narrow in response, shoulders straightening up. "It depends on what, exactly?" he demanded.

Tony was the one to answer, patting the red locks back into place. "Depends on what your war buddy has been telling her," he grumbled, warily watching the woman like she'd slump over at any moment. "Does she know about Hydra? About the Winter Soldier? About his list of crimes, one which is like the size of my bloody ego."

"I honestly couldn't tell you..." Steve shifted on his feet awkwardly, resisting the urge to play with his fingers. "I don't know, I never really focused on her, but they did kiss and hug before, like a couple? Bucky seemed worried for her too, and he's not the type to lie. If she asked why we were here, he would tell her everything if he thought she could handle it."

Natasha hummed. "Maybe we should stop focusing on separating them, then?" she ventured, looking between her three companions. "Maybe we need to give his girlfriend a copy of his file?"

Tony perked up. "That could work..." he mused, looking to blue eyes for approval. "You have the file with you right? We can get it copied and drop it at their hotel room. Just leave it in her suitcase or something?"

"But what if she doesn't know?" Steve whispered. "What if she panics and leaves? He told me she means something to him, he told me. I can't ruin that for him, not intentionally. I haven't seen him smile since I lost him, but he did when he told me about this dame."

 _"Dame?"_ Tony mouthed.

Natasha wrinkled her nose at the billionaire before going to sooth the super soldier. "If she can't accept what he's done, then she's no good for him. We'll go make the copies and drop them at the hotel," she decided, moving to help a certain man find his footing again. "Maybe you should sit this one out, Sam? You're looking a little green."

As the red head lead the man away, Tony nudged the soldiers side. "Hey, after we're done with the hotel, wanna check out that doctor your buddy mentioned? We could get some information about how they wiped his mind. Might help us help him get it back."

Steve nodded, turning to look over the parking lot. Next time he could, he'd need to tell Jarvis to find the license plate of the doctor's car, and then start using that to track their movements across the country. It would cut out their need for cameras in the very least. "Yeah, probably should," he muttered.

Tony's smile made the failure sting just a little less. "Brilliant," he announced, slapping a broad shoulder. "Now, do you think pizza is an acceptable reason to retire from the Avengers? Because I want some, but I'm on a mission. Can't leave the mission for pizza, it ain't right. So I must retire."

Cracking a smile, Steve shook his head. "Retiring means paperwork."

"Oh damn, it does too," Tony muttered, head falling back in despair. "Fine, fine. I'll wait 'til after the mission for pizza. I have some semblance of self control, I guess. Hey, you want in? I'll even get the one with pineapples for you?"

"Really?"

"I know, real friendship right here."

* * *

 **Hah! I'm on time this week, even though I'm cutting it super close and I almost went to bed without posting. I may or may not have forgot and pumped out this whole chapter today.**

 **Oops?**

 **Taila xx**


	28. Blood on my name

The change was practically seamless.

One second, the man beside her was the one she knew rather well. He was the same dork who purred in his sleep like a pleased jungle cat, who loved hot chocolates more than air, who would scowl whenever she toyed with his hair but lean into the touch anyway. She knew him. But it was only for a single second.

Once the house was in view, that second ended. Blue eyes turned a startling shade of crystalline violence, the colour sharp like frosted glass, and his body tensed before stilling completely. He didn't move, didn't speak, didn't acknowledge anything more than the house looming before them. If she hadn't already been nervously attuned to him, looking to him for guidance every few seconds, she never would've caught the change.

Never would've watched him shift from _troubled_ to _dangerous_ in less time than it would've taken her heart to beat...

It made a shiver go down her spine, wreaking havoc on her nerves, and she'd barely schooled her expression to normalcy before he was looking her way. Hesitantly, she gave him a smile; "We're here."

Bucky grunted back. "Make the call," he instructed, narrowing his eyes at the clean paint and perfect lawn. Bitterness laced every line of his body, acidic and dark in the way it shaped his posture. "State that you saw someone breaking into someone's home, hint at a metal limb. Maybe suggest a struggle."

Nodding wildly, the doctor scrambled for her phone. "You want me to stay here then?" she questioned, distracted as she unlocked her phone and dialled. "Or do you still want me to come in?"

His chin gestured to the house in an awkward movement. "Look. His wife is home; in the study with him. I need you to keep her distracted," he commanded, reaching down between the seats. The blade shined as he gently placed it on her lap. "I don't need it, but you might. Don't let her hover around furniture, he might have hidden weapons, and don't let her into the kitchen; too many things she could use against you."

Samara followed his eyes, barely managing to catch the movement of a slim female through dark windows. He'd been right, of course, and she was idly pacing the length of what looked like a library, hands waving about. "Yeah, I see her," she whispered, holding the phone against her ear. "Whatever you need, Buck."

The assassin gave her an odd look as another voice joined the conversation. _"Nine-one-one, how can I direct you?"_

Clearing her throat, the golden eyed female sat up slightly, free hand curling around the hilt of the blade. "Chicago police department, please," she requested sweetly, looking down to watch the metal shine in the afternoon light.

The young man on the other end chirped out an affirmative. _"Is this an emergency?"_

Samara swallowed, chancing the man beside her a quick look. Their eyes met for all of three seconds, but the contact helped her find her voice again, the smooth tones practiced and perfect as she gave a short reply. "Yes. Yes, I believe it is."

Beside her, the assassin let out an approving hum, silver fingers shifting to correct her hold on the weapon. It didn't take him long to be satisfied with her grip, and he moved to instead trace lines between the odd moles decorating her hand, features pensive. Surprisingly enough, when the voice came back he didn't watch her, didn't warn against failure with a well-known glare. He just continued to touch, lazily leaning against the headrest like a bored child.

Caught up in staring, the feminine voice startled her when it appeared. _"Chicago police department, what's your emergency?"_

Calming her heart, Samara took in a quiet breath, watching silver smooth over her skin. "Hi, uh, I think I just saw some kind of break-in? I was coming home on my lunch break, and my neighbour was arguing with this man. There was yelling, and the guy h-hit him and then forced his way in. I'm – I don't know how to say this, but his arm? It looked like it was wrapped in metal?" she breathed it out, like a panicked rush, and the woman cooed at her soothingly. "P-please, my neighbour has a daughter."

" _Ma'am I need you to give me a moment. Stay on the line."_ The warm voice faded, before there was sound on the other side of the call, loud enough to make her heart leap into her throat. _"Metal arm, did you say?"_ the woman repeated, and there were more voices now, yelling and shouting. _"Silver?"_

"Y-yeah, it was so weird?" Samara chuckled nervously, relaxing some when another hand moved to create contact. The assassin seemed content enough to trace idle drawings in her skin. "Silver, like you said, but there was colour? I'm not sure, I couldn't really see it."

The woman was speaking, but not to her, voice distant. _"Red. On the shoulder?"_ she asked shortly.

Samara narrowed her eyes. How much did these people know? And how did these people know so – she closed her eyes. This had rich billionaire written all over it. "Yeah..." she agreed slowly, running a hand over her lips. "You're right."

The woman – a deputy if the background noise was to be believed – tutted back, demanding to know where the incident had occurred. After she'd stumbled out the address, the deputy finished with a firm; _"Please evacuate the area,"_ before hanging up.

Staring at her phone in confusion, she lowered it to her lap. "I don't think we have long," Samara admitted, pocketing the device and snapping back into reality. It didn't take long for crystalline eyes to pin her down in curiosity, waiting for an explanation. "They were too organized. Knew too much. We need to hurry."

Bucky took one breath in before he exploded into action, throwing the car door open and standing to his full height. "Let's hurry then," he allowed, shooting her a dull smile over the top of the vehicle. "We have ten minutes."

"Wait, what?"

Shooting her the same bland grin, he started moving, heading towards the house with the look of a hunter painting his features. "Nine minutes and fifty seconds, keep up," he droned.

Samara huffed, locking the car door and hurrying to trail behind him. "Nine minutes and forty eight seconds, learn to count," she corrected, gingerly glancing down to watch the metal of the blade catch the light. "You're lucky it's literally the middle of the day, or we'd have people bearing witness to this, you know?"

Beside her, the man waved a hand in disinterest, pointedly checking over the neighbourhood. The neat houses were all the same shade of cream, had meticulously mowed lawns, and each one lacked any signs of life. There were ways to tell someone might live there – maybe a child's bike blocking the drive, or a name scrawled across the mailbox – but all rooms were vacant, all garages empty of equally plush cars. It was like a line of show homes.

Blinking, the doctor looked around unsettled. "Alright, so we're in a horror movie, and I'm holding a cheese knife," Samara muttered, hefting the weight uncomfortably. "Bet'cha I'm gonna be the first to die."

Bucky made a small sound – maybe amusement, she wasn't sure, she was still learning his grunts and snorts – and rapped on the door efficiently. "Maybe, maybe not. Depends on if you know how to use the cheese knife?" he asked gently, ears perked as movement sounded inside the house. "Can't be killed if you kill first..."

The door swung open, snatching the tension from the air, and revealing a bland looking man with a tired smile. "Hello, can I help – " the words fell short, eyes dropping to take in metal. The recognition was almost instant, the open grey eyes widening and knuckles turning white as they gripped the door. "Soldier?"

"Doctor," Bucky answered easily. "You were hard to find."

The man paled, checking over his shoulder when a feminine voice called out in interest. "It's no one, honey," he yelled, swallowing whatever he wanted to add and instead smiling sickeningly bright. "Ah, remember your aunt? The one coming to town? Think you could call her and ask if she's still staying this weekend?"

The assassin let out a dark chuckle, shaking his head. "Code," he noted, placing a hand on the woman beside him. "Would you mind stopping his wife from making _any_ phone calls? The doctor and I need to talk."

"No, no, no, they said I'd get a clean cut from – "

Samara sighed, shaking her head but pushing past the man blocking the doorway. "Hydra doesn't give clean cuts," she mocked quietly, slipping into the house and perking her ears. Behind her, the two males were talking again, deep voices washing over her, but she blocked them out, hoping for something slightly more...

Feminine.

Her head swung around at the soft, trilling voice, hands tightening on the hilt of the blade. _Found you._ Hurrying into the room she'd seen through the front window, she managed to catch the woman just as she asked to be transferred to the – "Chicago police department, please?"

"Sorry, you've been disconnected," Samara grinned wildly, plucking the phone from the woman's hand. Why was she smiling? Why were her lips moving up? This wasn't funny, this was... "Or you've been put on hold? You know what, I don't care, you pick. Whichever one sounds cooler. I'm new to this whole," she hung up the phone, licking her lips. "I don't know, assassination thing?"

The woman – far too gorgeous for the man, frankly – squeaked back, the pearls on her neck heaving with her breathing. "Assassination?"

Samara blanched. "Bad choice of words..." she murmured, biting her lip. It took less than a second for the pain to register, and she yelped. "I need to stop doing that. Um, anyway, yeah, no phone calls for you. Sorry, really, it'll only take a minute."

The blonde shivered lightly, backing away from the phone. "What do you want?" she demanded, trying to adopt a harder look. "We have money, if that's what you want? The cheque book is in the family room, just let me get it. I can write as many digits as you want, just let me go get it. It won't take more than a second."

"Nice try," Samara breathed, rolling her eyes, hooking her hand in the woman's elbow. "But no, we're going into the – "

"Kitchen?"

" - not the kitchen, and not the family room," Samara finished awkwardly, narrowing her eyes. The female was shaking rather violently, the trembles shooting down her arm and absently she felt guilty for her part in the fear. The male voices grew louder for a few seconds, and she realised she needed to get them both away from what looked like the study. "I actually don't know another room in a house. Do you have a library? Because either that or a lounge. You have a lounge, right?"

Not really giving the woman a chance to answer, she started walking, lips pursed as she studied every room they passed. All she needed was an empty one. One that didn't have a phone or something that could be used in a violent manner. Nothing blunt, nothing sharp, nothing that could give a bruise or split lip.

Samara tried to swallow her own panic, the emotion rising in her throat further with every single step. It would be less than ten minutes. What kind of damage could the man do in only ten minutes? The male doctor seemed desperate to get rid of his past, so maybe he'd give up the information easily? Maybe they'd be here for only five minutes instead of ten...

It's not like the woman was in risk, and neither was the daughter. Bucky said it was the threat that mattered and – god what was she doing? This was a crime; she was committing a crime and she _couldn't_ –

"In here," Samara decided, poking the woman in the back to provoke her further. The room was pleasantly decorated, her daughters room most likely, and she idly hoped it would help calm the woman down. Before shutting the door, the doctor checked the hallway nervously. Her assassin would come get her when he needed to leave. "So, uh, you have a kid?"

The man's wife slowly nodded. "Deanna..." she whispered, shaking hand gesturing to a photo on the wall. It showed the two parents grinning up at the camera, a small brunette girl between them wearing a stunning smile and pastel dress. Beside the photo were more frames, these holding what looked like drawings.

"Are these hers?" Samara questioned, gesturing to the pencil sketches. "She's a good artist. How old is she?"

Lips wobbling, the female swallowed and pulled a face. "Um, she's six, she just started school?" she revealed, fingers coming up to tap awkwardly at the revealed skin of her collar bone. "Not its biggest fan though. She only went to day care for about four hours, so she's a little annoyed school runs for more than that."

"Don't blame her," Samara rolled her eyes, reaching out to scoop up the nearest soft toy. "School sucks. Hey, tell her not to become a doctor, because medical school sucks more. It's a never ending commitment. And even after finishing it, your only option is to work in an occupation surrounding health, which also happens to suck. Have you ever enjoyed spending time with a sick person?"

The woman – _Mrs Riley? -_ licked her lips, mouth moving soundlessly. "You're a doctor too? Like my husband?"

"Cosmetic surgeon," Samara corrected, realising rather quickly that probably wasn't the smartest thing to do. _Why not just tell her your name and address while you're at it?_ She swallowed, giving a quick and tasteless smile. "Uh, a cosmetic surgeon back home. You'd be surprised how many people in Detroit don't like their noses."

Riley leant forward. "You live in Detroit?"

Pretending to study the beady black eyes of the teddy bear, she nodded quickly. "Yeah," she murmured. "Don't know why I'm all the way out here, but okay. I've learnt not to argue with fate. Go where the wind takes you and all that."

"Peter – my husband – he used to work in Siberia," Riley smiled, bowing her head lightly. The action was almost modest, shy, like she didn't want to brag. "He never really told me what he did though. Military, you know? I didn't see who was with you, but the man, he sounds familiar. Did they work together?"

Samara chuckled. "I wouldn't know," she shrugged, shaking her head. "Uh, the military thing was pretty hush hush. I don't even know what really happened, honestly. But your husband, he uh, did some good, I guess."

 _He kept Bucky alive for one..._

Riley looked up hopefully. "You think?"

Nodding, the female doctor raked a hand through her hair. "Yeah, I do," she allowed. "So, at least you have that, right?"

"You know, for someone who's broken into my home and held me at knife point," Riley started, pursing her lips at the blade hanging innocently from slim fingers. "You seem really nice. I kinda like you."

Samara pulled a face. "Lucky me," she drawled, wincing when her eyes fell on the knife too. It was a bulky, ugly, shiny thing and she decided she hated it. Hated it when it was used against her, and hated it now when she used it against someone else. "Sorry about that too, if it's any consolation. We've all been there."

Riley looked her up and down, meek demeanour fading somewhat. "We've all been there?" she echoed, brow coming together to rest above her previously tear filled eyes. "Have you ever been held at gun point?"

"Well, no, not yet but – "

The gun was cocked and aiming between her eyes in less than a second.

Riley smiled, smug as hell, as she tilted her head to the side mockingly. "Yet being the key word?" she cooed, letting out a dramatic sigh. The aim didn't waver, not even a little as blonde hair was flipped over a clothed shoulder. "As I was saying before you interrupted me; your companion sounds very familiar. His voice brings back memories of the time I spent back home. Before I left Siberia."

Samara wanted to wince, she wanted to call out for her assassin, she wanted to do something with the blade still hanging limply from her hand. But she didn't. She just glared at the woman, the woman who had something to do with all of this, not bothering to stare down the gun or watch the bullet leave the chamber.

"Speaking of memories – how is the Asset? Remembered his past yet? I'd imagine it's quite hard, what with the years of conditioning we put him through, for him to even remember his real name," she giggled breathlessly, the gun coming an inch closer to the space between wide gold eyes. "By the way, the name is Doctor Elsa Riley. I was the one in charge of making sure he didn't break too much. He's like a toy in that respect, you know?"

Samara lifted her chin. "I always hated _your type._ Therapists hide behind clichés and poetic words."

"The term is psychiatrist," Elsa corrected, raising a brow at the blade. "Sorry, but we can't all be cosmetic surgeons. Some of us care about others, rather than ourselves, you know? But you look the type; pretty and perfect."

Samara tightened her grip on the handle, not caring when the woman waved the gun in a gesture for her to drop the weapon. Like hell she was dropping it. This blade was Bucky's favourite. "You care about others? That explains why you tore down a man's psyche. Also, why you've clearly put no effort into looking after _yourself_. Honey, you look tired."

The comment was harsh, she'd admit that, but the pistol whip was harsher.

* * *

When the doctor tried to go after the woman, he stopped the notion by pushing the man back and slinking through the entrance. "This is a nice house," Bucky observed, nodding slightly as he took in the plush carpeted floors and wooden trims. "Hydra must pay better than I thought if you can afford this."

"They pay for silence," Peter bit out. "Which both my wife and I have kept. Why did they send you?"

The soldier gave a simple shrug. "I need to know something. Hydra isn't after you, good doctor. I am," he growled, reaching to twist his hand in the expensive material of the man's shirt. Using the hold he had, he dragged them both to the study he'd seen before. "Where is the man who ran the operation."

Peter shook his head. "I don't understand who you're talking about," he stated, grunting when he was dropped in the leather of his chair. "There was no _one person_ in charge. There were many."

Bucky licked his teeth. "Colonel Vasily Karpov. Location. Now."

"I d-don't know – "

Metal fingers started choking. "You were all discharged from the programme at the same time. The procedure of _flushing_ all personnel on the project every ten years never changed, so don't try tell me it has. You know where he is," Bucky ground out, narrowing his eyes. He didn't have long now. Eight minutes, and that was generous. "Where did he go?"

"Why do you care, Soldier?" Peter gurgled out, gasping when the grip lightened. "He's not your handler anymore. Your new one would've been instated, first in two thousand, and then again in twenty ten."

Bucky adopted a dark scowl, deep red flashing behind his eyes. He knew he had to find the source of the colour. "I don't care about my handler. He's dead. But the Colonel took a few souvenirs. I want something in his collection," he revealed, leaning closer. "So you're going to tell me where he is."

Peter frowned, holding a hand to the aging column of his throat. "Hydra has fallen, along with the intelligence it hid behind," he murmured. "You have nothing left. Your programming should have – "

"I am not my programming."

Again, the male doctor frowned, eyes flicking to the metal and then to the blue orbs watching him. "You're not the asset," he realised shortly, leaning back. "I always wondered if I'd ever met you, Sergeant Barnes."

Bucky hid the flinch by roughly running silver down his features. "Don't make me ask again," he warned, baring his teeth and broadening the line of his shoulders. The tactic worked wonders; the doctor shrinking back to hide from the threat. "There is nothing sentimental between us. I could snap your neck and still sleep like a baby tonight."

"I burnt all the files I took with me," Peter challenged.

"You're not lying," Bucky agreed, narrowing his eyes. "But you're holding out on me."

The doctor pulled a displeased face, breaking the eye contact with a snarl. "I don't want anything to do with Hydra anymore," he hissed, leaning forward. "I left that life behind me. The only things I took from that blasted base was my wife and those files. We were barely given time to escape before they threatened to shoot."

Bucky let out a short chuckle. "Killing you would've been a good way to ensure your silence," he shrugged, flexing the metal of his left hand. It worked quite like a muscle would, responding to his wishes and whirling mechanically. "Where is he?"

The following stare down was something note worthy. Something he wished would be added to the history books in due time. He didn't flinch, didn't blink, didn't so much as breathe until the man below him cracked with a whine.

"The files are enclosed in a copy of my wife's psychiatric journal," he finally admitted, jerking his head in the direction of the oaken monster of a bookcase. The wood stood proud and solid when blue eyes looked over in curiosity. "The book was hollowed out. She always preferred theatrics over logic."

Grunting, the soldier moved towards the case. "You should've burnt them," Bucky grumbled, ripping through the books until he found one that were lighter than it should've been. For a thick book, it weighed nothing more than a novel. "I take it this is it then?" he spoke, louder now as he ran a hand over the cover.

 **Doktor Elsa Nikolaev**

Bucky felt his brow come together, panic stirring in his gut. He knew that name, didn't he?Hearing movement behind him, he spun in time to find the other man ripping open the top drawer of the desk, throat releasing a victorious cry. The sound didn't last longer than a second however, and soon the man was tearing through the drawer hopelessly. "Looking for something?"

Grey eyes peered up. "I had my gun in here," he whispered, shaking his head and slumping back in defeat. The soldier was about to make a sarcastic comment, rub in the fact that there was no weapon there, when the man started laughing. "But it looks like my wife bet me to it. Tell me Sergeant, exactly how attached to that pretty young thing are you? My wife has a brilliant aim."

Bucky felt his stomach drop. "Samara..."

Tucking the book under his arm, he shot from the room, almost tripping over the rug lining the rich wooden floor in his panic. She had a knife, she wasn't completely defenceless, but what use was a blade when there were guns? She couldn't use it to dodge a bullet, and there was no hope she was efficient enough with it to disarm the woman before she could shoot.

Damn it, _why_ did he leave her alone? She was fragile. She needed to be protected.

The pained cry was his homing beacon, and he slammed the door open with nothing more than a thought, mind registered the crack of gunfire before his body was moving. Hitting the floor, he rolled until he hit something solid, not really thinking as he circled his fingers around the leg of the chair and brought it up to slam against the centre of a heaving chest.

 _"Bucky!"_

The artistically aged wood of the armchair shattered under his grip, and the howl of pain was cut short by the initial collision. Whoever he hit crumbled to the ground, and absently he noted warmth shifting behind him.

The sound of gunfire went again, and something drifted past his hair, ruffling the already tousled locks.

Bucky twisted when the sound of another body hitting the floor echoed, lips parted to let in panicked breaths as he watched the man's chest shudder once before giving up. "Sammy?" he begged, turning again to meet startled eyes.

His doctor was holding up the gun, still crouching beside the unconscious woman she'd stolen it from. "A-are you okay?" she whispered, the previously accurate aim starting to shake. Her eyes drifted to the second body, welling up with salty tears. "I t-think I killed... I shot him... He was right b-behind you…"

Hurrying forward, he pried the smoking gun from her hands. "You did, yes," he soothed, cradling her neck with his fingers. With his free hand, he wiped the gun on the legs of his pants, making sure to grip the weapon afterwards and leave his own prints. He couldn't let her be blamed for this. "You did good, you saved me again. Thank you. You saved me, it's okay."

The tears started falling. "Bucky?"

The war veteran winced and pulled the woman closer, tucking her head under his chin. "It's okay. You saved my life, you did the right thing. It's okay," he promised, pressing a kiss to her crown. "It's okay, we're okay."

* * *

 **I'M NOT CRYING YOU ARE**

 **Oh, that last part was sad to write. All I could imagine was Bucky holding her and whispering everything's going to be alright, but she'd breaking down and crying and now I wanna cry and oh wow, I shouldn't be so invested with my own stories holy crap.**

 **Taila xx**


	29. Am I really me?

It was almost like she was sleeping.

All her movements were relaxed – _lazy_ – as she grabbed onto him with both hands, tucking her nose into the crook of his neck and breathing evenly. The smaller body wasn't tensed, no nerves or worry holding onto her muscles as he smoothed a hand down her back. It honestly seemed like the doctor had rolled over in her sleep, made sure he was there, and then succumbed to dreams again.

He almost wanted to believe that she was – wanted to believe she was resting against him, relaxed and boneless, and _happy_. But he could practically taste the distress in the air, could feel her shuddering breaths press against his chest, could hear the silent sobs smothered into his collarbone.

His doctor wasn't sleeping, and probably wouldn't for days, not until her body was too exhausted to continue. Her own mind would stop any notion of rest, would play the past ten minutes on repeat and never burn out. Even if she managed to shut her eyes, if she managed a few precious minutes or hours of sleep, she'd watch it again. Like a twisted movie with no happy ending.

Bucky knew this because he knew his doctor…

… and the same thing had happened to him.

Burying his nose in the mess of brown hair, he took a short breath in, grounding his mind with a spicy scent. "We don't have long," he murmured, pulling back as carefully as he dared. The woman blinked open her eyes, staring at him with a dulled splash of gold. "They'll be here soon, and we need to find something before we can leave. You'll be okay without me? Only for a minute."

He was only going to move three feet away – only going to find the hollowed book and rummage through it. It would only take a minute. But he wasn't sure, not if the woman could take both the distance and the time away.

Samara somehow managed to look both broken, but also whole as she smiled at him. "I'm okay," she promised weakly. "I did okay."

Refusing to wince at the rasp in her voice, he cupped her chin, lifting it up in defiance. "You did perfectly," he corrected, pretending he didn't notice the flicker of emotion in her eyes. He'd lost his doctor to shock, but once he got her away from here and somewhere safe, he could and he would get her back. "Okay, now, give me a minute."

As he shifted away, she made a small noise behind him, something noncommittal and uninterested as he tipped the book upside down and spilled its contents. Any other time would've found him deciphering the grunt, mind whirling as he tried to figure out what it meant, whether she was unhappy with him or simply acknowledging his presence. He would've bent over backwards to make sure she was okay, but now all he cared about was finding an address. Finding _something_ that could point him in the right direction.

Because once this man was out of the way, once the splash of red was gone, he could relax. Maybe he could go to – to the blond. To Steve. And he'd take his doctor with him and everything would be okay and –

 _Oh._

Bucky snatched up the paper, leaving the others where they were; they'd label the two people in the room as criminals; hopefully locking one away while deciding the death of the other was a public service. "Sammy, come on, we need to move," he announced, cocking his head when the echo of sirens reached his ears. If they managed to get out, he'd believe in miracles. "Sammy, shit, go now!"

He was expecting to carry her out this time, to help her find her own feet, but she didn't need him. It might have been his voice that got her attention, or maybe she was aware enough to register the sounds around them, but she was quick.

He expected stumbling. He expected the woman to decide she needed to stay, to take her punishment for killing a man, but she was beside him all the way.

And strangely enough, when she hurried to the car, it was to drop her body behind the steering wheel. "I'm driving," she muttered firmly, not even blinking when he hesitated, openly disagreeing with the notion. "Don't argue. I swore I'd never let you touch this car, not while I'm alive. So, get in, and shut up."

He would've argued, really, but the snap to her words and the gleam in her eye only made him hide a smile. "Fine," Bucky allowed, barely managing to shut his door before she floored it. They were out and sailing down a side street before he could even think to warn her about the chance of blockades. It was admirable, and he could see his doctor in the determination and – and kissing her now would be highly inappropriate, so why did he want too so badly?

Tearing his eyes away from set lips, he checked the area around them. There was nothing but lights. Red and blue.

"Do you know where you're going?" he breathed, swallowing thickly as he glanced back to the female. "The hotel could very well be surrounded, or for all we know they've split up and one team is waiting for us there."

Samara made a small sound again, and this time he was careful to listen, trying to gauge whether she was with him or not. "Yeah, but I need my things, and so do you," she grumbled, slowing down and straightening up. He could see the flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her neck, but whatever she was feeling was kept away from her features. "I say it's worth the possible risk. What say you?"

So, she was either hiding behind a smile, rather well he wanted to add, or she was back. Bucky narrowed his eyes. "I second."

When she tilted her head to shoot him a smile, he saw clean through it. Eye contact was her weakness, after all. He didn't say anything, not when she blinked away emotion or when she hurried to drop his eyes, and instead leant back in his seat and studied the outside world. There were no lights behind them, and once he saw the hotel building he'd know if they were alone or not. They were almost in the clear…

"Where are we going after this," Samara demanded in the silence, wincing when her own voice cut through. "You got what you needed, right? So, you know where we're going next? Please tell me it has a beach."

The comment pulled a smile from him, and he hid the action behind silver digits. "Then for your sake, I hope Cleveland has a beach."

Again, he was made to hide a grin when the woman let out a world weary groan. It was forced, awkward and obviously, something she'd done knowingly rather than by accident, but it lifted the mood. "Again? Cleveland? It's moments like these that I realise I hate you a little bit," she bit out, lips pursed in irritation. The look she shot him was practised as she slowed at some lights. "Okay, I won't complain if you tell me why. Deal?"

"Deal. I found the address for someone who used to direct the programme," Bucky admitted slowly, wondering how much was too much. If he worded it correctly, maybe she would nod and accept it without looking too deeply? The last thing he needed was for her to mentally retreat. "He has something, about me, about the programme."

Samara was nodding, waving on another driver. "And we want it?"

The young driver looked thankful enough to cry when she let him cut in, face a mess of a smile. "Very much so," Bucky agreed, surprising everyone in the car by giving the youth a quick smile and wave of his own. His doctor openly gaped, but all he did was return the hand to his chin. "I'm planning on a bonfire, something spectacular, large, maybe some fireworks? Drinks, of course. I don't think I can get drunk but it'll be fun to try."

Finally, _finally_ she gave him a soft, genuine look, lips curving upwards. "You want to burn it? You have an affinity for fire, you know," she chuckled weakly, and the smile faded at the edges, dying as she turned to watch the other cars. "Are you gonna… What are you doing with the old director?"

"I'm handing him over to Steve on a silver platter," Bucky promised, reaching out brush a hand over shoulder. "I hope he rots in prison, personally."

The woman snorted. "Ain't nothing personal about that. It's a shared opinion, believe me," she decided, eyes drifting his way for all of a second. "So, prison? And – and Steve? Are you sure? I didn't see much of your conversation this morning, but you two seemed a little…"

Bucky frowned, but finished her sentence. "Tense."

And they had been. This blond guy was his friend, his best friend, but other than the odd moments of camaraderie; all he could see was an enemy. Right now, Steve wasn't Steve – he was Captain America and his duty was to apprehend both suspects on the run. For now, he couldn't go to the man without risking his mission, without risking what he was working for but… but the mission was so close to being over.

"I can't be on the run forever, you know," Bucky murmured, watching her from the corner of his eye. "I'm a wanted criminal and eventually I'm going to have no choice. I'll have to hand myself in one day."

Her hands were white on the steering wheel, knuckles trembling under the force of her grip. "I know," Samara nodded, words carefully calm. "And I'll be right beside you, as I'm sure _you_ know," she finished, sending him a hard look like she expected an argument. "I mean, I did just… I killed a man. A bad man, yeah. But he's… he's dead and…" Her eyes drifted shut longer than they should've, and he almost told her to pull over. "And he's has a daughter, god."

"Samara…"

In a blink, golden eyes were calm. "We're almost at the hotel," she excused, smiling in apology. "You know, I'd pay to see you and Steve like, play fight or whatever you call it. I'm betting on you, of course, but I'd still pay to see it."

The change in conversation was smooth, and Bucky let an easy smile settle on his features. "I wonder who would win…"

The doctor snorted, car slowing to a stop as she played with the parking brake and gear stick. "Sweetheart, something tells me that is a very popular argument somewhere," she muttered pointedly, slumping back in her seat. "Like, try Tumblr? Maybe Instagram? You'll get your answer, or at least the most popular opinion."

When she fell into silence, playing awkwardly with her fingers, he paused and studied her features. What was she waiting for? Was there something on her mind, something she was struggling to put to words? Bucky hesitated, reaching out to tap her shoulder and get her attention. "You okay?" he asked softly. "You've gone quiet on me. It's not normal."

Samara smiled at the lacklustre humour. "No, but thanks for asking," she shrugged. "Are we, you know… can we go in or...?"

Oh, she was waiting for the all clear? Bucky started slightly in surprise, leaning to the side to watch the area around them. It wasn't dead; there were people ambling about, bags in hands or phones to their ears, but there was no panic and all the cars seemed innocent enough to him. With a shrug, he waved a hand. "I say so," he allowed, pushing his own door open and stumbling from the vehicle. "Let's just pack our shit and go."

She quirked a brow. "Did you just look around?" she demanded. "That seems a lot like giving up. I was expecting some deduction crap, seeing as you're a trained assassin and whatnot. I could've looked around and told you that Captain Tightpants wasn't in the vicinity."

Bucky held open the hotel door for her, letting it swing shut behind them. "Yeah, but what about Birdboy?" he questioned, pretending all his attention was on the woman as he checked the area around them. There was a distinct lack of guns or shields, and he relaxed minutely. "Or the one with the designer facial hair? They fly, and you wouldn't think to look _up,_ would you?"

"I would too, because I'd be checking for snipers," Samara corrected, clearing her throat as metal doors closed them in. "And you don't have to look for the fem-ssassin," she decided, suddenly looking very small in the elevator. Both her hands came up to cup her elbows, head ducking down. "Her hair can be seen from space."

Bucky made a sound of agreement, reaching out to curl an arm around her shoulders. "Too be fair, you can be _heard_ from space…"

"Hey," Samara argued weakly, slapping his chest but leaning against him. Her own chest shifted with a deep breath, eyes closing again as she leeched some strength from him. "I'll have you know my rambling has gotten better. I know when I'm doing it now, so I can stop it if I want."

Finally, the doors opened and he steered her out, towards their room. "So, you voluntarily keep talking then?"

The doctor shot him a glare, one hand habitually unlocking their door and swinging it open. "What's gotten into you, asshole?" she grumbled, stepping back and letting him enter first. It was strange how she knew what he'd do before he did. "You're being so mean, it's unlike you. Well, not the mean part, just the witty delivery part. And don't try tell me sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, because it's the highest, please and thank you."

Bucky only copied her infamous eyebrow quirk, checking over the room before pulling her in. "I don't like seeing you sad," he murmured between them, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "And I understand at least some of what you're feeling right now. I was a Sergeant before all of this happened. I killed people and I lost sleep because of it. I lost the person I thought I was, but in losing that I found someone better. If I hadn't found that guy, Steve still would've saved the world sure, but he would've been a lot less fabulous doing it, yeah?"

The laughter that bubbled out of her lips was a sound sent from above.

"And Sammy," he continued, holding her eyes. "You're gonna lose sleep too. You're gonna look at yourself in the mirror and think too hard on whether it's the same person. But you're not alone in any of this, okay? Look behind you, and I'll be right there; ready to knock your ass out so you can finally get some sleep." When she snorted in response, he shrugged and defended himself with; "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

Gold was cautiously amused. "You've already punched me once this week," Samara grouched. "You've filled your quota." Making no move to pull away, she shifted, switching her weight between her feet. "You felt… detached too?"

Bucky nodded, wincing at the faint, blurry memory of the war. "I remember the barracks being loud, always too loud, but my thoughts were much louder. Nothing managed to distract me from what I'd done, so I was always in my head rather than in reality. It's why I got snatched by Hydra that first time. I wasn't paying attention, and my entire squad paid the price."

A sound of disagreement and a small squeeze around his waist was his reply, the woman curling into his hold like a cat. "S'not your fault," she muttered into his shoulder, apparently content to slump against him.

As he wrapped both arms around her in return, he thought on how strange his position was, on how strange it was to be the pillar of strength for them. He was an assassin, someone who had murdered dozens – maybe innocent, or maybe not – and a man who was on the run. He was the epitome of bad. But here he was, supporting someone who was the epitome of beauty – both inside and out.

Strange that she ran _too_ him, rather than away from him.

Bucky rested his chin on her head, officially deciding he liked to be seen as _safe_ by the woman. "Maybe it wasn't," he allowed slowly, entertaining the thought. "Maybe we were all a little distracted. But it still happened and there were still consequences for what I'd done."

Samara tensed against him. "There's going to be consequences for what I've done too then?"

"Honestly?" he tested, waiting for a nod before he continued. "Not from the government, or the law, I think. What you did was self-defence, and I left enough information there to throw their grandkids in prison, I swear. But you… you're going to create your own, I think. Your own mind is going to be your consequence. Like I said, you're not going to recognize yourself until you've come to terms with this. It's going to be messy."

Samara gave a groan. "I hate messes," she breathed, shoulders lifting in a sigh. It was then that she pulled away, one hand coming to scrub across her features while the other stayed tangled in his shirt. Bleary eyes pinned him down; "I did the right thing?"

Bucky only nodded.

"I don't see it," she admitted quietly, brow coming together to knot above warring eyes. "I don't see how you think I did _okay_. I see that I killed a young girl's father and I feel like a monster for it. Yeah sure, her mother's still kicking, but she's going to jail. Deanna's gonna be in the system, bouncing from family to family and that's my fault. If I hadn't let that bitch overthrow me, we would've left them alone after we got what we wanted."

Bucky winced. "Well, Steve had their address. They would've gone to prison whether we showed up or not. _Deanna_ would've lost her parents no matter what happened," he tried to point out, tapping her chin and pushing it up. He hated it when she angled it down, hiding behind her lashes. "It was inevitable."

Samara bit her lower lip, gnawing at the corner and avoiding the still healing cut. "They're gonna come here looking for us?"

"Most likely."

The doctor nodded, rocking on her heels before moving forward and rifling through the drawers in the kitchenette. "Okay," she shrugged, snatching up something from the contents and leaning over the counter.

Bucky frowned and moved closer, reading over her shoulders as she scribbled something rapidly on the provided notepad. "You're asking Stark to watch out for her?" he chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "I don't know why I expected any different from you. Make sure someone picks her up from the school, and that someone gets her things for her. We don't want her going into her bedroom."

Samara lifted her head at his words, eyes running over his features before she smiled in approval. "Okay," she repeated. "Didn't know you had a soft spot for kids."

"Never said I did," the assassin defended, crossing his arms. "Kids are irritating."

It was a snort that broke through the woman's carefully schooled stern expression, and soon she was beaming. "They're annoying yeah, and even I tend to dislike 'em more than I like 'em but…" she shrugged. "Call me maternal but sometimes I just wanna make sure they have what's best for them. There is never any reason for a child to have a life less than perfect to me."

"How noble," Bucky taunted, watching the note be finished with a flourish of ink. "We need to pack, come on."

He could hear her trailing behind him, listening to her footsteps rather than her voice to make sure she was on track. He didn't think he could ask her to drive the whole way to Cleveland, not when all she needed now was rest, but he didn't know if they had much of a choice. Any hotel they pay for will be noted by the people following them, unless they paid in cash – and even then, they'd need to draw out money, which would be recorded as well.

The man hesitated, pausing as he shoved a dirty shirt into his bag. "They…" he started, waiting for the woman to look up from her own suitcase. "They can't _stop_ you from accessing your money, can they?"

"Freeze my accounts?" Samara nodded. "If they really wanted too, yes they could."

Bucky nodded vaguely, barely paying attention as he watched the woman cycle through her belongings. She moved a bit like water, always seeming to shift and swim with some place in mind. "Freeze your accounts," he echoed, finishing his own packing before zipping up the bag. Checking the room over, distractedly so maybe, he noticed she was still hovering over the same case as before. "You okay?"

The woman started to the side, tearing her eyes away from the dark contents. "Yeah, just uh, remembered something," she murmured, checking the case again before slamming it shut.

* * *

 _He couldn't get rid of it._

 _Bucky had been in the shower for close to an hour now, the water long since cold, but he couldn't get out. The blood still clung to him, heavy and thick, and no matter how hard he scrubbed it wouldn't come away. It stuck to his skin, to his person, to his heart._

 _He'd killed today. First day on the battlefield and he'd warmed to a rifle, warmed to hiding as he stole men and kids alike from reality and thrust them into the afterlife. First day on the battlefield and he'd hidden in the banks of snow, shooting anything that moved and didn't bare his flag. At some point, he'd saved someone from his team from a gruesome death, had to stand still and endure applause and slaps on his shoulder for his work._

 _For murder._

 _The others were either drinking or sleeping now. First day out there, and it had been a success. No injuries – no loss, thanks to his steady aim. They couldn't drink to forget, as some seemed to want too, but they drunk until they were just shy of giggly. They couldn't be hungover tomorrow._

 _The water raised bumps on his skin as it travelled down, wracking his nerves. He stayed where he was, watching it shift along the planes of his body with a morbid fascination. Someone came in eventually, asked what was taking him so long, asked if he needed 'privacy' with a drunken innuendo. He'd brushed them aside, smiled and said he still smelt like shit no matter how much water he wasted._

 _The man had laughed himself to tears as he walked away._

 _Bucky had beat him to the tears a while back._

 _What was he doing? The war wasn't his problem, wasn't his issue to deal with. The damn government could finish it for all he cared. It wasn't like he didn't care for his fellow man, or for his country, but people were dying for a stupid cause. Who started the damn conflict anyway? Why did they?_

 _It was all Steve's fault. Steve with his big blue eyes, and honest heart. He never would've enlisted if it wasn't for the little runt, if it wasn't for the punk's long spiels about people laying down their lives while he puttered around like some housewife. Bucky would've happily stayed home with him, with his best friend, his brother, but eventually the words had worn him down and now where was he?_

 _Cold and miserable as he remembered the gasping chest of a man he'd shot, remembered the young features contort in pain before smoothing out._

 _The water switched off under his hand, leaving him even colder and in the silence. At least before, he'd had the sound of the rivets to sooth him. Had the ancient plumbing of the base to calm his bones. Now he had nothing but silence._

 _Absently, he could hear his team roaring in laughter, but he felt none of it. Tomorrow, they were marching back into battle, leaving the safety of their base and drawing the enemies attention further west. It would be easy enough to distract the idiots, but it would never be easy enough to shoot them down._

 _As he towelled himself dry, he wondered if it ever got any easier to kill._

* * *

He wasn't sure about this.

When he'd brought up the money issue, saying that they could be tracked easily with her credit card, she'd deflated. But when he'd told her he wanted to stop before Cleveland, she'd brightened up before cautiously offering something from her own world.

He'd been hesitant, of course, but he'd eventually agreed because it was practically perfect. It was a little out of their way maybe – Syracuse wasn't exactly close to where they were heading – but it was perfect in the long run. it covered the money issue easily enough, and gave her the rest he wanted her to have. Hell, they could even draw money from the bank without it reflecting negatively on the plan. The city was off course just enough that if her name came up, the people tailing them would drift that way instead of following them directly.

It was perfect.

Bucky shifted in his seat, sparing the woman a quick glance. "Your parents won't mind?" he asked carefully, hoping to find a glitch in their logic. If she realised this was a bad idea, just like he had, maybe they'd turn around. "You didn't exactly call ahead."

"Don't worry. They'll be ecstatic," Samara admitted bitterly, lips firm and set.

He couldn't help but shift in place again, uncomfortable as they got closer and closer. "They'll be in danger," he pointed out, wiping a hand over the back of his neck. "If we go to them, you'll be including them in all of this. Are you sure you want that?"

Samara frowned, thoughts darkening her features before she sighed, apparently as unsure about this as he was. "No, I don't but…" she shrugged, giving him a quick and empty smile. "But I need this, and so does our little scheme. You need a stop over, and right now, some time with my father wouldn't go amiss. I don't – I don't exactly know when I'll be able to see him next or… or if I'll be able too. No offence to you darling, but trouble loves you."

"You want closure?" Bucky guessed, quirking a brow. "That's very…"

"Cliché?" the doctor chuckled, the sound hollow. "I don't want closure. There's no wounds left to close. I just want a… I want a goodbye," she admitted, checking the words with him shortly. "Buck, listen, I stared down the barrel of a gun a few hours ago, and I didn't like what I saw, but something tells me I'm gonna see it again. This is nothing against your ability to protect me – you came just in time – but what if one day you can't?"

The thought of it made his stomach twist awkwardly, and he nodded more forcefully than he meant too. "What if next time I'm not there," he said simply. "So instead of learning how to defend yourself, you're tying up loose ends?"

Samara almost looked angered now. "I haven't seen them since the holidays last year, okay? I'm feeling like a shitty daughter."

The snapped words made him straighten, and metaphorically retreat from the conversation, feature easing into a smile. "Okay," he allowed quietly, his voice almost a whisper. "But what if they don't like me?"

Confusion, then humour and then – "Oh my god, you're such a dick," Samara giggled, shaking her head. "I didn't even think about that. Bringing a guy to meet the parents less than a week into the relationship. I'm so pro at this, like, watch and learn," she drawled, winking at him. The light in her eyes was dulled but still alive, and he praised any god that would listen for not taking her away from him. "Oh wait, shit, you're about to meet my parents."

Bucky chuckled. "I don't mind," he promised, running a hand through his disarrayed locks. Some part of his mind, hiding away in the corner, was glad he'd showered the night before and that he would look at least partway decent. "Is it strange to meet them so early?"

Samara considered the question. "I guess…" she shrugged. "Back in your day it wasn't though, right?"

"Had to get the father's permission for dating most times," he admitted, looking to his lap. That same part of his mind, the one they seemed to care about opinions and traditions, whispered that maybe getting permission now would be a good way to go. Like his doctor had said, there was a chance that later he wouldn't be able too.

Said doctor pulled a face. "Should I be jealous another girl had you before me?"

"Girls. As in plural."

"I am not above making you walk the rest of the way to Cleveland, so help me."

* * *

 **Hey guys! It's me… obviously… cause like who else would…**

 **The way I handle shock, and big happenings, is either going silent or making too many jokes for it to be healthy – and I'm trying to somehow merge those two reactions for Samara. I hope this was okay? The parents part... yeah, a little angst family time before the finale, if you feel me. I hope it fits in like I'm thinking it will. I've admittedly already got the plot down, so I know how the rest is going to play out. But you guys are who matters, and I really hope it's good.**

 **Taila xx**


	30. I'm okay

The house hadn't changed much.

It was _still_ framed by those perfectly trimmed hedges – the green shade vibrant when compared to the cream paintwork, and pastel flowerbeds. It _still_ towered over her little car at two stories tall, casting a shadow along the front lawn and lacing the brightness with something darker, like clouds blocking the sun on a dreary day. It _still_ had a little stone pathway leading to the front door. It _still_ had the family name scrawled across the letterbox in cursive ink. It _still_ made her sick.

The female doctor almost snorted at the sight. How did they manage to keep it so mundane, and _not_ be bored of their own surroundings? How could they follow every known cliché without fault, and still not stray from whatever catalogue they'd modelled it after? God, even the ancient car, parked in the drive and dirtied from constant use, belonged on the cover of a magazine rather than hidden inside suburbia. All of it was just… terribly and heart wrenchingly familiar to her eyes.

Except for the man in the doorway – he couldn't have changed more if he tried.

"He's going grey," Samara whispered brokenly, sucking in a deep breath. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened, almost to the point of pain, when a smile split the elder's features. "And he's lost more weight."

Warmth spread like fire along the length of her leg, silver gripping the muscle and the assassin making a sound of understanding. "Time is…" Bucky didn't seem to know how to finish, chapped lips moving without words, before he settled on a sigh. "Not always kind."

Shifting to grab his hand, to have more contact than a fleeting touch, she let out a weak chuckle. "And you would know, right?" she murmured, voice low like they were sharing a secret. The man in the doorway was starting to fidget; shifting his weight between his feet and looking over his shoulder. It almost felt like if she spoke too loudly, grinned too brightly, he'd hear her and know everything that had transpired.

 _Everything._

Bucky's smile was indulgent. "I like to think father time and I get along," he allowed, blue eyes watching her own features sharply. Whatever he was looking for, he found, and the happiness fluttered before returning full strength. "Do I look ninety to you, gorgeous?"

Samara gave him a humming reward, looking first to the house and then to long fingers. "It's a prototype," she rehashed, tapping metal with her nails. "They won't ask questions, not if you make it clear you're uncomfortable with it. But, if you honestly don't care, then make up some beautiful story. I'll go along with anything you say." And hey, if she was rambling now, who would stop the torrent of words. "If you're okay with them knowing we're together, I'll introduce you as my partner. I'll even drop the whole _we met thanks to your severe erectile dysfunction_ thing, and say I'm helping with the prosthetic. If you don't then – "

Warmth. No, _hands._ One slightly cooler than the other, but still warm as it cupped her cheek and forced her to meet blue. "Sammy, we're okay," Bucky promised, and _how many times had he said that lately?_

Her dad was moving now.

Samara felt her eyes snap between the movement drawing closer, and the features already frighteningly close to her own. "Bucky, he's right there," she informed him, wriggling slightly in her seat. "He's coming and – "

More warmth, this time in the air as the assassin chuckled, breath fanning across her cheekbones. "And I've got you," he said knowingly, darting forward to press a firm kiss to her lips. "Come on then, I'm getting out. He looks ready to gut me for touching his daughter, and unless you want me dead, you're going to need to come too. You know what a human shield is, right?"

The smile was genuine this time, and she laughed softly, turning to look and _oh yeah,_ she could see it. Samara let out a whistle. "Oh, you're so dead. It looks like he's gonna make it hurt too."

Bucky shoved her gently, coaxing her out of the car before finally moving to stand up as well. He wasted no time in adopting a charming smile, giving the greying man a nod of acknowledgement. "Good evening, sir," he greeted, bending to stretch out the length of his spine with a muted groan. "You must be the infamous father?"

Her father shot her a small scolding look. "And you must be that guy, the one I've never been told about. Pleased to meet you…"

"James," the brunet introduced, holding out his left hand pointedly and with a quick smile. The little shit practically glowed, eyes sparkling in the light his silver arm reflected. "But please, call me Bucky. I got enough _James_ from my own parents to last a lifetime."

Unfortunately, her father had never been fooled by a disarming smile like most parents, or even charmed by gorgeous features like she apparently was. "Right then," he smiled back, all bared teeth and thin lips as they shook hands. Typical males. "Well Bucky, my names Leonard. But, my lovely daughter likes to affectionately call me Bones. You ever see _Star Trek?"_

It took less than a second for the assassin to realise he was lacking knowledge. First there was the predictable confusion, his lips jutting out into a pout, then a wince decorated his features, mouth opening to defend himself before – being the good person that she was – Samara dove in to save him from the dreaded pop culture. That man owed her big time.

"Yeah, I probably shouldn't call you that," she admitted reluctantly, ducking closer to hug her father around the middle. It was something she'd done as a child, a teen, and now as an adult. "I mean, I _am_ the only doctor here. Last I checked, you were still translating text books and spending more money on fixing up your old car then fixing up your new wife."

Leonard snorted, hugging her back but first messing up the neat locks of dark brown on her head. "Don't let her hear you say that," he grumbled, sighing as he shifted, resting his chin on her crown.

Samara chuckled into his shirt, rubbing her face against the material before pulling back. "Okay now, I'm not completely stupid. You two were sizing each other while my eyes were closed just then, weren't you?" she demanded, looking between them. Both looked guilty, their eyes betraying what their innocent gestures tried to claim. "Don't try and bullshit me. I could feel the testosterone spiking."

"Hey now, angel, we were just – " Leonard started, but never finished.

"Ah, not completely stupid." The doctor cracked her knuckles. "Let's deal with this now then, huh?" she decided shortly. "Daddy, if you haven't clicked yet, Bucky and me, we're kinda together, okay? And that means he's important. Second favourite man in the world. I left my coffee machine for this man."

The man's brows shot up to his hairline. "Wait – did you say you left your coffee machine for him? Damn," Leonard cursed, running a hand over his chin. "He _is_ important. So, does that mean I'm not allowed to scare him? Threaten him?"

She gave him what would be the first of many unimpressed looks.

"Alright, alright, lighten up, honey. I'll behave if your boy toy promises too," Leonard muttered, folding his arms against his chest and glaring. It was obvious in the way he flinched that he didn't expect the other man to be glaring back, baby blues harder than rock. Almost startled, he looked back to his daughter for help. "So, what does he do for a living? Security guard? Body builder? Terroriser of innocent villagers?"

Bucky chuckled, the corner of his lips dancing up into a smirk. "Ex-military, actually," he drawled, mimicking the older man's stance and crossing his arms. "I never got paid for terrorising villages. It was more of a hobby; did it in my downtime."

It was almost like watching a tennis match, and the only female felt her head snap to the other contestant.

Leonard only blinked in shock. "Well, would you look at that. I'm starting to like this one," he declared, cocking his head. "Bucky, you're welcome in my house, and since I haven't seen my daughter actually _smile_ in a while, you're more than welcome in my family. Just remember, both offers can easily be taken back, should I be seeing tears at any point. I do own a gun."

" _Excuse you – "_

The elder grinned. "Love you, angel," he promised, depositing a kiss on her temple before he started moving back towards the house. "I think it's lasanga tonight. Or linguine? Something with an _L_ and too many vowels."

As the man walked away, the hard look shuttered on attractive features, melting into something softly stunned. Bucky swallowed and bit his lip, throat moving like he wanted to speak, but he stayed silent as she shifted closer, lacing their fingers together. She wasn't sure if he'd realised it just yet, but that had been her father's okay, his approval, his metaphorical thumbs up – and he'd gotten it without trying, without putting on a mask.

Something warm settled in her chest, and she smothered her smile into a broad shoulder. "Come on, beautiful," she pushed gently, wrinkling her nose back at him when he snorted. "Let's go inside. We missed lunch, and I'm starving."

"How do you think I feel?" Bucky grumbled, hesitating for a second before stalking forward.

Humming, she kept their hands together as they wandered towards the house, locking the car behind them absently. Her father's opinion was the one that mattered, the one she was worried about, but her stepmothers was already making her itch. That woman could find a fault in perfection, could make the most level headed man act irrationally. That woman could ruin it all without lifting a single manicured finger.

Before they could cross the threshold, she stopped her companion and tugged his head down to her own. "Don't let her get to you," Samara warned quietly, drifting a hand over stubbled cheeks. "I swear she'll try her damnest, but don't let her win."

Bucky frowned. "I won't," he nodded, leaning into her touch before smiling, albeit weakly. "I think I like your father. He saw right through me when I tried playing nice, but didn't seem threatened when I put on my _death glare_ as you've so creatively named it. He's not an idiot."

"When you see what he married, you'll change your opinion."

Bucky quirked up a brow, following her example when she wiggled out of both her hoodie and her shoes. "I don't think I want to meet what he married," he murmured, shaking out his hair and awkwardly tugging on cotton. He wasn't wearing his red shit – which was his favourite, she was a genius – underneath, but a plain grey one that ended at the elbow, leaving silver on show. "You don't like your stepmother."

It wasn't a question, and she nodded slowly. "We'd barely put mum in the ground when she pounced…" Samara swallowed, staring at the carpet beneath her feet. A kiss was pressed into her hair, and she lifted her eyes with a smile. "She's a good cook though, I'll give her that much."

"Well then, I'm looking forward to her food," Bucky admitted, striding further into the house with confidence. "Her company however?"

Samara giggled, watching the lines of his body shift as he walked away, studying his surroundings. "You got a booty like _damn_ ," she called out after him, openly laughing when he faltered and glared back. "Oh, what, you got a problem, Sergeant?"

Bucky snorted. "Yeah, I do. You," he grumbled, straightening up to his full height. Anyone else and she would've found it terrifying, would've only seen threat in the way his shoulders broadened and his eyes zeroed in on his target – but it wasn't anyone else, it was her assassin, and so she gave a mocking salute. "Really? That's how it's gonna be? Fight me."

The doctor shook her head, noting he'd picked up on her lingo. "That's how it's gonna be," she agreed, taking an imposing step forward. It probably wasn't as threatening as she thought, but he took one as well, completing the charade. "Don't test me. I will flip you like a cheese omelette."

"I'd like to see you try," the assassin challenged.

Samara snorted loudly. "No, you really wouldn't dude. I'd win and you'd be embarrassed," she winced, pulling a face to emphasis her own words. "Then your pride? It would just – _poof!_ Gone like the wind."

"Soon, it's _you_ that's gonna be gone," Bucky warned, pointing a finger. "Poof."

Apparently done with the conversation, the master assassin disappeared through the nearest doorway, waving a hand in dismissal over his shoulder. Little did he know however, was that he'd walked head first into the kitchen, into the lion's den. If dinner was almost ready, and overly complicated – _something with too many vowels_ – then it meant her stepmother would be in there cooking up a storm. Poor guy was a goner.

Running a hand through her hair, the doctor moved to lean against the wall, content to wait. He'd probably dart back through and come to hide behind her soon enough, treating the slim lines of her shoulders as a shield. Her stepmother left that kind of impression.

It was either that or he'd be kidnapped for the foreseeable future.

Hm.

Samara pursed her lips, torn between chancing the wait or going to find another source of entertainment. If she was right, and the house _hadn't_ changed, then there would still be an old chess set sitting by the bay window, no doubt collecting dust. If she was right, then her stepmother still hadn't bothered to learn how to play, and her father would be getting rusty. If she was right, then she might bloody win for once.

Pushing away from the wall, she peered through the archway leading into the sitting room, catching her father fiddling with something silver. "Yo, mister old and fabulous," she called, grinning when the man looked up in exasperation. "Do you mind if we crash here tonight? It's a little too late to go grab a motel."

Leonard almost looked shocked at the question. "You don't have to ask," he murmured. "It'll be nice to have you here."

"Great, I'll go get our things from the car," Samara allowed, hesitating before giving him a more subdued smile. "You wouldn't want a quick game of chess before tea, would you? I can't tell you when I last played."

The older man frowned, brow coming together. "When you came home last year. Christmas," he recited dutifully. "It's when I last played, at least." When she slowly nodded in response, hovering in the archway and unsure of what words to use, he lightened his expression. "I'd love a quick game, angel. It should already be set up, but I'll go and check. Do you need any help?"

Blinking dumbly, she tried for a bright smile. "I've got it," she whispered, backing away and retreating out the front of the house. The fresh air was like a slap to the face, and she took in a deep breath, tasting the threat of rain on the wind. "Damn."

The car unlocked after she pressed a single button, and she headed to the boot, moving to grab the large case she'd claimed as her own. Her hands hovered however, over the three that the other man had adopted during their two weeks as a dynamic duo. One was that little backpack he always seemed to have within reach, the one that held his journals and the files he'd stolen, and she slowly tugged it out to join her bag. Okay, and the gym bag held all his clothing right, so…

So, what was the thicker black one? The material was heavy duty, scratching unpleasantly against her skin when she skimmed a hand over it. It honestly didn't seem familiar, but it was impossible that she hadn't seen it at some point in time. The only time they were apart was when he went to the bathroom or showered, or when he went out on his little –

Missions.

Samara sighed. "Oh hell," she whispered, checking the house once before unzipping the bag. It was black that stared back at her, and with a frown she pulled out what looked like a mask. "He's secretly into BDSM?"

Tossing it back with apprehension, she found buckles and leather next; the silver sliding away under her fingers and gleaming in the light. The doctor openly gaped, mouth at the ground, before the familiarity made something click together behind her eyes. She had seen this before – the night they'd first met. The same leather look had been torn by whatever had injured him, but she knew the lines of material and clasps well enough.

"Okay, that's – that's actually not even that bad," she breathed out, sifting through the clothing. "He's got a back-up costume. Perfectly understandable. Captain tightpants probably has like eight pairs of spandex and – and that's a gun."

The weapon – it can't have been a pistol, no way no how, it was too small – seemed to glare up at her.

The front door opening made her quit the staring contest. "Sammy? Your father said you were getting our things, need any help?" Bucky offered loudly, jogging down the stone path towards the car. "Please say yes. If I have to go talk to your stepmother again, I'll cry."

As the man came closer, her hands hovered. If she zipped it shut and pushed it away, she could pretend she'd never looked. It would take a few seconds, but she had them. "Yeah, some help would be nice. You have more bags than I do," she called back weakly, hands drifting to the contents. "I mean come on, I'm female, I have an excuse – what's yours?"

Bucky rounded the lifted boot with a small smile. "I'm complica – "

Silence.

Samara lifted her brows, one hand still pressing the mask to her lips and muffling her words. "What's this then?" she asked lightly. "And why do you not walk around in it constantly? It might shut you up for once."

The man winced. "It's… it was…."

"Hydra?"

Bucky let out a world weary sigh, fingers furiously rubbing at his eyes before he nodded. "You can't have the world knowing who I am," he said lowly, slowing reaching to tug it down from her features. "It was just to control who knew my appearance. Sometimes even the doctor's, the people who would tend to my arm, didn't know what I looked like."

Samara hummed. "And who's that?" she demanded, poking the gun and quirking a brow. "I'm not gonna say I'm not mad, because lying is bad, but you could've introduced us. She's cute, must be a good conversation. And hey no – you better not be cheating on me."

Blue darted back and forth. "I gave you my knife, and you honestly thought I didn't have a back-up," Bucky challenged slowly.

Opening her mouth, she went to answer, went to say something breathily sarcastic but stopped before the words could leave her lips. The way he was watching her, shoulders tight and eyes dulled, showed he was expecting a fight. It was unclear exactly what kind of fight – be it a screaming match or one with bullets involved – but he was still expecting it. The insult left a bitter taste on her tongue.

Pointedly, she zipped the bag back up, leaving the mask out where he could see it. "Oh well, can't argue with that logic," she declared, waggling the black like it was a white flag. "I wanna see this on you later. Now, grab your bags and help me lug these inside. We need to go upstairs and my arm strength can only manage so much."

Silence fell beside her, and she hummed to fill the void, only stilling when twin hands gripped her hips. Bucky seemed to struggle with his words at first, eyes shaded by confusion. "I'll never understand you, will I?"

"Oh honey, no, no you won't."

* * *

Dinner sucked.

Correction – dinner was sucking. It wasn't over yet, so no past tense.

Samara smiled, making sure the action didn't show her teeth before she downed another glass of wine. The taste was pleasant, something fresh and fruity and _expensive_ , but it was short lived. There was no time to admire the rich flavours; she needed alcohol and she needed it now.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a dark brow climb. "Slow down…" Bucky warned quietly, using the rim of his own crystal glass to hide the words. "You don't want it hitting you too hard, or too fast," he pointed out, giving his own tight lipped smile. The discomfort was obvious on the lines of his face, hidden in the colour of his eyes, but only whenever –

"So, did I hear you use to be in the military?"

Both of them slowly turned to face the table at large, slouching over like kids forced to interact at a function. Actually, that was almost what it felt like, now that she thought about it. There was the food she usually only ate if she paid for it, company she detested – minus her father and her partner, obviously – and the feeling of being so beneath said company she might has well let them walk all over her.

Bucky cleared his throat, apparently remembering someone had asked a question. Props to him, even she didn't. "Uh, yes ma'am," he allowed, nodding once in confirmation. "Special forces. I was honourably discharged."

"Oh, dear please, I've already told you; call me Elena," the woman cooed back, hands fluttering about and glittering in the light. How many rings could a single woman wear, honestly. "Enough with this ma'am nonsense. Say it again and I'll feel ancient," she chuckled, the sound well practised and nauseating.

Samara snorted silently. "You already look it," she muttered into her wine.

A sharp elbow collided with her side, reminding her she had company. Bucky's smile was tight still, but there was genuine humour lacing the edges. "My apologies," he soothed immediately, resting his elbows on the table. The doctor was almost tempted to tell him that went against proper etiquette, but it made his arms shift nicely and, well, she could use the distraction. "My mother was always strict, saying we needed to be polite. I suppose it stuck."

Elena made a sound, something torn between adoring and scolding. "I can see that," she allowed, reaching out pat her husband's hand. "You're extremely well mannered. It's a shame seeing all these younglings being rude, isn't it Leonard?"

The man in question hummed, but knew better than to open his mouth.

Then again, he didn't really have time to get a word in. "I suppose it wasn't through work that you two met then?" Elena proposed warmly, tilting her chin at them both. "Our little pumpkin is a cosmetic surgeon – so there's no military ties there, and you don't look like you have, or ever will need any work done." How strange; suddenly she could feel the urge to gag growing in her throat. "So, tell me the whole story! I need to know, put it down in the family bible and all that."

Samara took a careful breath in, tongue darting out to lick her lips. "Well uh, it's a lot less romantic than I think you're hoping for," she started slowly, finally lowering her glass back to the table. "But uh, we were – "

"Oh pumpkin, what happened to your lip?" Elena mock gasped, reaching across the table to brush her fingers across the bruising. "You look a sight. Did you walk into something? Trip? I have some concealer upstairs that can hide that for you."

Blinking dumbly, she realised the woman had meant to say that aloud, her features earnest as she waited for an answer. This was why she liked staying indoors, inside her own home, away from other human beings. "It's not that bad?" Samara frowned, lifting a hand to cover it self-consciously. Her cheeks were burning slightly under three pairs of eyes. "Um, I'll just go – yeah, upstairs you said?"

Elena nodded, and tsked lightly. "In the bathroom, cream bag darling."

Nodding politely, she pushed away from the table, keeping her dignity about her as she wandered from the room. The conversation was quick to pick up behind her; her stepmothers voice sickeningly perky, but she didn't bother trying to listen in on it. After all, she had a face to fix.

Stepping clear of the main bedroom, she wandered to her own, trying hard not to wince at the sight of old photos and a flowery wallpaper. It was the same as she remembered, albeit foggily, from before she left for medical school. The walls and furniture were all muted shades of blue or beige – _no pink dad, I'm not a walking stereotype! –_ with books crammed in every nook and corner, and the stupidest little things taking up the limited free spaces.

Compared to this mess, her new home seemed…

Empty?

Samara swallowed and wiped a hand over her brow, shifting forward to grab one of her old teddy bears from the bed. It was still in perfect condition, black beady eyes smiling up happily. "Miss me?" she chirped, running her fingers over the soft fur before letting out a small distressed sound. "I don't even remember what I called you."

"Probably something frighteningly well thought out," Bucky drawled from the doorway, posture relaxed as he slumped against the wood. "Please tell me this isn't your bedroom. Tell me you have a younger sister."

Throwing the bear at his head, she dropped onto the bed. "Shut up Barnes."

Peering out from around the teddy – he'd caught it, of course he had – his brow lifted. "I'm only teasing," he defended, waltzing further in and studying the walls. "I like it. Good theme, relaxing colours, creepy number of stuffed animals." His eyes narrowed, head tilting back as he watched a particular soft toy from across the room. "That one's watching me."

Samara cradled her head in her hands. "I'll punch you, I swear," she mumbled, letting out a biting sigh. "Pass me my bag, would you?"

Bucky's attention was on her in a split second, eyes knowing. "Why?" he asked, already going to grab it and drag it closer to the bed. "It's not bed time already, is it? Your stepmother said we were going to look at baby pictures after dessert."

The doctor gave him a short look, lips turned down and features tight. "I'm getting my makeup bag," she admitted quietly, lifting the teal number and shaking it. It was in her hand for all of three seconds before metal snatched it away.

"No."

Samara huffed. "Bucky, come on – "

"No," the assassin repeated, shifting up so he could shove the bag under his ass. "Can't fix something if it ain't broke," he drawled with a charming grin. "I think you look lovely, _small and barely noticeable bruise_ included."

The woman blinked in sated shock. "You sat on it?" Samara noted quietly. Absently, she wondered if this was really worth the effort; the man was stubborn as all hells and wouldn't budge even if she shoved with all her might. "You sat on my – _Bucky_ that has glass in it, you dickbag. Sit up before you shatter something and get glass stuck where it really doesn't belong," she hissed, snatching the bag back when he leant to the side.

Only to have it snatched back.

Throwing her hands up in defeat, she didn't bother trying to win the argument. "You know what, keep it," she grumbled, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hands. "You need it more than I do anyway."

Bucky hummed. "Cruelty isn't a good look on you," he mused idly, tugging uselessly on a loose strand of hair. It tugged back. "And neither is self-loathing. You're not a child, Samara, so don't throw a pity party."

Samara almost choked on surprise. "Pity party? Excuse me for not feeling a hundred percent. Unlike you, I don't have _murder_ on my regular schedule," she bit back, throwing herself bodily away from him and to her feet. Her vanity dresser was closest, covered in hardened nail polishes and ghastly shades of lipsticks, but she retreated when she caught a fleeting glimpse of her own face. "I'm human, thank you very much."

"And I'm not?"

Spinning on her heel – _don't look in the mirror, don't look_ – she chewed on her tongue. "Bucky, don't turn this –"

Bucky sighed, letting out a too loud laugh. "Don't what?" he mocked, tilting his head to the side. "You're not okay with it, are you? With anything I've done; the crimes, the endless path of bodies I've left behind me, any of it. I can see it in your eyes."

When had her breath run out? Samara panted lightly, looking to the side before starting forward. The assassin danced back, smoothly shifting so he wouldn't be within reach, and absently she noted that it hurt; nothing more than a dull ache in her chest. "Should I read this?" she demanded, digging through a layer of clothing and pulling out a file, neat and crisp.

It was held out for him, and he slowly offered an arm to take it. _"Read this before you pick a side,"_ Bucky quoted, holding the folder tightly before glancing up, features hard. "Where – how did you get this?"

Samara shrugged weakly. "It was in my bag."

With shaking fingers the man opened it, flicking to the first page before his face paled and he threw it onto the bed. Whatever struggle he went through, whatever things he thought, he did it on his own – she stayed where she was, keeping distance between them and refusing to close it. If this hurt him, then she honestly could say she didn't care.

"If…" Bucky was frowning. "If you want to read it…"

Something told her it was hurting.

Shoving her hands under her armpits, she managed to hide the slight tremble in her voice with a snort. "Let me guess, if I want to read it, you won't stop me?" she mocked, shaking her head. "I feel like I should be reading it out loud, around a campfire with a torch under my chin. See if it scares any of my friends or teaches a lesson in humility."

The tanned column of his throat was moving in a thick swallow, the tendons shifting as he struggled for a few seconds longer. "I'm going to tell your parents you have a headache," he announced carefully. "Tell them not to bother you. Do what you want. I'll sleep on the couch."

Samara gave another snort and turned her back.

* * *

The study was warm, almost too warm – between the fireplace and the heated glare from across the room, it felt like his skin was on fire. It felt hard to breathe with the weight on his chest, with the heat in the air, and he almost wanted to give up.

Bucky felt his teeth grind together. "I thought you said you had a gun?"

From the armchair, Leonard made an angered sound. "I do, but my daughter as a _headache_ , and I'd hate to bother her with the bang," he announced dryly, hand to his lips and brow covering his eyes. It did next to nothing to hide his displeasure. "Do I want to know why she refuses to come out? Why you're down here instead of up there?"

"I understand the concept of giving her space," Bucky grunted. "When she needs it."

Leonard nodded in understanding. "You're a coward then," he realised, not backing down when a sharp look was pinned on his being. "Oh, you're not going to scare me son, so don't try," he said tiredly. "I'm used to that look."

Swallowing, the assassin bowed his head in acknowledgement but didn't make a move to say anything more. There wasn't much he could say. The man had every right to be furious with him – they'd both heard the dry sobs, both winced when the door was slammed back in motherly features. They both cared enough that her pain was also their own.

"Son, what did you do?"

He was so much like his daughter, Bucky realised, looking up at the older male. They both had the dark hair and angled chins, both had that gleam in their eyes that either promised eternity or pain. He scratched at the stubble on his cheeks, and shrugged; "I'm not perfect, sir," he admitted, trying for casual as he moved to lie back on the couch. "Guess it was only a matter of time until she realised that."

Leonard whistled. "Nice pity party there," he complimented, lifting a glass of scotch in a mocking salute.

 _You're not a child, Samara, so don't throw a pity party_

Bucky winced, hurrying to change the subject to safer grounds. "You both talked before dinner," he murmured, tilting his head so he could see the man. At his nod, he continued. "What did she say to you?"

"It's a secret," Leonard decided, sipping from his glass before sighing, studying the amber liquid. "Every time I see my daughter, I swear she only ages in body, never in her mind. For over fifteen years, I've watched her grow a silver tongue, a sharp mind, and a nice way of shoving people aside, but I've never seen her grow past that thirteen year old girl who buried her mother," he muttered, eyes dulled by memory. "I always thought I was being dramatic when I said I lost my daughter that day, but I did."

Bucky couldn't help but sit up, feeling disrespectful for even thinking about rest when the man across from him was wide awake. Deep set eyes looked to him, surrounded by aging lines, and he felt sympathy for the first time in decades.

"The doctors never did find out what killed my wife," Leonard announced. "I pushed Samara into medical school thinking if she had her answers…"

Slowly, achingly slowly, the assassin nodded to show he understood, to show the man he didn't need to finish the sentence. "You thought you get her back," Bucky whispered, closing his eyes. When had he gone from stealing the doctor for her occupation, to stealing her for her heart?

"Listen son, when I saw her today I saw something I haven't seen in years," the elder revealed, his smile tired but true. "I feel like she found her answers, but between the time I saw her last and today – the only thing she found was you. My angel never did warm up to the idea of a significant other, didn't like the risk of loss I think, but she's warming up to you nicely."

Bucky cracked a weak smile. "This is when you tell me not to break her heart, isn't it?"

Leonard pushed to his feet, body creaking in protest. "That sounds about right," he admitted, nodding once and moving to the study door. "I don't know what you two are fighting about, but tomorrow morning, rain or shine – you're apologizing, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," Bucky bowed his head.

Leonard came back into the room with a chuckle, clapping a silver shoulder under his hand with little more than a wince. "She's already trained you well, I see," he allowed with a wink, singing under his breath as he flicked off the lights and disappeared around the corner.

Bucky watched him go, heart in his hands before he slumped back against the cushions and let out a gusty sound. It was getting hard to live day to day – to slowly get accustomed with how a normal person would feel in normal situations. It almost felt like two weeks ago, he was a completely different person. Like slowly, this woman had tugged out the soldier and shoved _him_ back in.

He couldn't pinpoint it, not really, not the exact moment it had changed. Samara had picked him apart, treated him like a puzzle and put him back together with the same ease until he resembled something almost human.

He was still confused over whether he was happy about it, or furious.

Samara had restored his right mind, maybe, but she had restored it with her memory. If he wanted to leave now – she would be coming. He couldn't, wouldn't, be able to take more than a few steps without her beside him. It was selfish. Most heroes left their loved ones alone, not wanting to include them in their day to day, but he couldn't.

Samara was his heart, more or less.

Samara was his right mind.

Samara was his, end of story.

Samara was – blocking the doorway?

Bucky blinked when the light flared, blinding him for a few short seconds, before the door was shutting with a small click and plunging the room into silence. "Samara?" he tried, sitting up straighter and rubbing his eyes. "Are you okay?"

The fire was crackling and sending shadows across the angled planes of the woman's features, her eyes shining almost ethereally in the flames as she searched for him in the shadows. Her lips parted to let out a deep sigh, and then she was moving; not towards him but towards the fire. There was something in her hands, thick and heavy but she threw it into the red without more than a thought.

"Samara…"

The doctor gave him a smile. It was weak, tired, and her eyes were rimmed with red, but it was a smile. "Bucky," she echoed, coming forward to drop onto the couch beside him. "My room is scarier than I remember. That damn soft toy was watching me."

The assassin tried to smile back, he really did, but the fire… "Was that the file? My file?"

Samara cocked her head. "I didn't need to read it to pick a side," she whispered, turning and flinging her legs up onto his lap. Instantly, he moved to cradle her calves, fingers kneading into the tense muscle. He didn't know where the urge to touch came from, the urge to care, but he didn't have the strength to fight it down. "I'm sorry."

Bucky let his head loll to the side, watching the pattern of flames reflected in amber orbs. "And you're forgiven," he allowed without a beat of thought, finally managing that smile. "I'm sorry too."

"You're forgiven too," Samara giggled sedately. "I'm okay with it."

He couldn't help but straighten up a little, the words apparently fusing his spine together. "You're okay with what?"

"You," Samara promised. "It's not really that bad, when you think about it. And me? Well, boo freaking hoo, I killed a murderer. I'd say it makes me as bad as him, but no, I didn't work for a death cult and play with some guy's brain for shits and giggles," she snorted, reaching up to tug on his hair the same way he had to hers a few hours before. "And _you_ , mister, were brainwashed. I've seen people kill for less."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "You kidding me? I'd kill you for a chocolate bar."

"I like the way you think," Samara snickered, bopping the tip of his nose. "But in all seriousness dickweed, if you want to make me hate you, you're going to need to do a lot worse than that."

His eyes widened, but the shock was warm in his chest. "Worse than that, hm?" he murmured, noting that the atmosphere was quiet and safe. The fire was still heating up the room, the lack of light making the conversation strangely private. "Like _break your coffee machine_ worse than that?"

"You wouldn't."

Bucky grinned lazily, hooking silver in the front of her shirt and tugging her forward. He pressed a languid kiss against her mouth, content to keep his actions slow before he shifted back, licking his lips and tasting – "You have a candy stash up there, don't you?" he snorted, sucking the sugar from his lips before going in for more.

"Gummy bears," Samara admitted against his mouth. "So, as lovely as this is; dad will get up early to read the newspaper in his armchair tomorrow," she informed him in a whisper, tipping her head to the side when he moved down her neck. "I don't want a rude awakening."

"Bed time then," he decided with a quick grin.

Hefting her up with ease – doll like, as he'd said – he used his foot to put out the fire, snuffing the flames with ash.

* * *

 **I had a weird moment about half way through this chapter as you can tell – where did that fight come from? I planned for fluffy domestic bliss. Then that shit went down and there's me yelling at them to behave, and oh my god, it's literally one in the morning right now and I'm tired.**

 **Whoo child, I need either sleep or caffeine**

 **Taila xx**


	31. Is the plot actually advancing?

Over two dozen confirmed kills.

That took him from _murderer_ – from _serial killer_ even – and booted him up the ranks, all the way to _plain insane_. It took him from _walk on the other side of the street at night_ , to a more _walk on the other side of the country_ kinda thing.

Not that she cared much anymore, as strange as it was to admit out loud. In her opinion, any man who looked so innocently content as he slept, any man who looked so haunted by his own crimes was someone who had a heart. Bucky had buried his rather well, but every morning when she'd wake him up he'd smile at her, all foggy blue eyes and wide yawns, and she accepted it.

Accepted that maybe she was in too deep to really think, really _care_ about the list of crimes she'd read…

So, murderous insane amnesiac? All okay in her books. Murderous insane amnesiac who likes to _cuddle?_ That wasn't okay in any book. You're either evil and murder people, or you save puppies from the side of the road and cuddle your significant other. There was no crossing the streams.

"You're holding me this close cause it's easier to slit my throat when there's less distance, right? That's why this is happening?"

Bucky grunted in response, hovering stubbornly between the realms of waking and sleep. "You're warm," he murmured, breath floating through her bangs as he sighed. "I got cold last night and – and don't you dare make a _winter soldier_ joke. I was frozen in ice, we get it. Hilarious."

The sleepy words made her beam against the skin warming her lips. "If you're cold you grab a blanket, not a woman," she pointed out gently, shifting with the man when he took a deep, exasperated breath in. "Or you put more clothes on, mister tall dark and always somehow bloody shirtless. How do you do that? It's like a magic trick."

Another grunt, and another tired sigh from the sharpshooter sounded. "You hog all the blankets," he whispered, smothering a yawn into the dark mess of her hair. "If I hog you, then by consequence I also hog the blankets. Everybody wins. Go back to sleep."

"Wow, you've put a lot of thought into this, haven't you? I'm impressed. And," Samara faltered, yawning into bronzed skin with an exaggeratedly loud sound. "And damn you, yawns are contagious. Anddamn you times two, I can make all the bad jokes I want. I'm playing the part of uber driver _and_ credit card for you, snowflake. You owe me."

The hand resting on her back started tapping the skin, the touch mimicking a beat she didn't recognize. "Compromise. You can make any joke you want, about my age or the cyro storage, I don't care. So long as you never call me snowflake again," Bucky commanded, leaning back to watch her with sleep fogged blue eyes. "We have a deal?"

Samara grinned, reaching up to bop him on the nose. "Deal," she allowed, "… _Snowflake_."

"You were right. It's easier to slit your throat when I don't have to strain my arms," Bucky admitted with a sigh, narrowing his eyes. While sleepy, his glare wasn't doing much to make her cower, even with the tightening grip of his silver hand along the width of her hip. He seemed to realise that at least, when she reached up to tap his nose _again_. "You're so exhausting," he groaned, batting her hand away. "How did your parents manage you?"

"A new nanny every week," the female revealed, squirming until her other hand was free to hit the tip of his nose too. "And once I got older, my studies kept me quiet for the most part. If I didn't have something to learn, they gave me something. Hence why I can play two instruments, and know yoga almost too intimately. _Dude_ , every time you catch one hand, I'll just switch to the other," she threatened idly, wiggling the arm he had in his grip before lifting the other and slowly moving it towards his face.

Bucky stared her down for a few seconds. "How? It's seven o'clock in the morning and you haven't had coffee yet – how are you this chipper?" he demanded, spitting out the last word like it was an insult.

Samara blinked in thought for a few seconds, before settling on a shrug and taking back her arms. The assassin didn't seem to trust her, but once she'd settled both their hands on his chest, he let the skin go. "You know…" Comfortable again – he smelt good, like puppies or spring or something? – she pursed her lips. "I didn't figure you to be the sleeping in type."

He sighed. "I'm not tired. Just this is – " Another sigh, more controlled. "I'm just enjoying this while it lasts."

"Oh, what? Think I'm about to up and leave?" Samara teased, leaning back so she could take the uncertain look in consideration. The smile almost slipped when she caught the guarded gleam, blue eyes darting away. "Hey, no, don't be a dick. Why would I leave now of all times? You're just starting to…" she grinned again, slow and dangerous. _"Warm up_ to me."

Bucky spasmed like she'd punched him, any sense of nervousness disappearing. "And there goes the mood," he muttered, pointedly flipping onto his other side in a bid to shut her out. "I'm going back to sleep. Good day."

The doctor almost dissolved into laughter at the words, entertained by his pout, but felt her throat go dry before the sound could even think about escaping. The stubborn movement, while bloody hilarious, had forced her to watch _every_ muscle in his back and stomach shift gloriously beneath tanned skin, temptingly close and warm. The desire to touch made her fingers twitch.

God, he really was beautiful.

She hadn't really had the chance to _explore_ him yet – to roam and search the length of his skin with her hands, to get a feel for the silver and the bronze, to learn him. The thought of contact hadn't really entered her mind until that moment, but now it was all she wanted.

Refusing to give into the temptation, she swallowed instead and whispered; "Well, things just got a little chillier."

A wordless scream was crushed into the nearest pillow.

It would've been about then that most would've retreated, maybe sucked up a little before leaving the room and giving the assassin time to cool down. It was either luckily, or unluckily, that Samara wasn't like most. Still refusing to back down, she stared at the twitching muscles between his shoulder blades and lifted a hand. Her finger tips brushed the skin with a barely there pressure.

The body beside her rose up and over, pinning her to the mattress so blue eyes could peer down. "You have a death wish," Bucky announced dryly, shrugging once. "It's the only excuse I can come up with."

Samara wrinkled her nose, wiggling under the new weight. "You need to start skipping that pre-dinner snack thing you do," she muttered, now testing to see if her legs would obey her commands. Nope, heavy weight only got heavier. "Getting a little hefty there, lover boy."

"Yes well, you need to start skipping that irritating me thing you do," Bucky countered quickly, cocking a brow her way. He didn't seem to wait for a reply before settling, shifting down until he could tuck his nose into her stomach to smother another yawn. "It's irritating."

The woman snorted, showing nothing other than amusement when his lips brushed her navel. Her weaknesses were her own. "You comfortable down there? And I know, that's why I do it," she revealed, dropping her head back to the pillow. Faced with the plain ceiling instead of blue eyes, she started curling his hair around her fingers, idly noting that the dark colour was like tangled silk. "Did you sleep okay? No more dreams?"

"Memories," Bucky corrected, breath tickling along her stomach. "And no, I didn't have any more. Actually, don't think I dreamed at all."

Samara pulled a face. "Sound like you had a good night," she murmured, tugging out the knots littered through his hair as gently as she could. The assassin didn't complain much, instead letting out a purring hum whenever her nails dragged along his scalp. "Better than me at least."

Another rolling purr answered the words. "What happened last night?"

"A nightmare," Samara admitted quietly, frowning at the ceiling. "I don't really remember it, but it wasn't... wasn't pleasant. I can remember something coming for me, and I can remember being scared. That's about it."

Bucky made a sound of protest, strong arm stretching up to tap her chin until she looked down to him. "That's really all you remember?" he pushed, lowering his hand to rest it on her side. His palm almost covered her entire ribcage, fingers brushing the line of her sternum, and strangely enough, the sight made her stomach flip. "Are you sure?"

The imploring look made her instant denial crash and burn. "There was a weight in my hand, something heavy and cold you know?" she continued, biting her lower lip when he nodded. "But I didn't want to hold it."

The assassin hummed curiously and yawned again, shaking away the exhaustion still decorating the blue in his eyes. "You shot someone; with a rather cold and heavy gun you probably weren't happy to be holding. Don't you believe in the whole _dreams really mean something_ thing?" he questioned.

"Not when the dream means something I don't wanna deal with."

Bucky smiled, the stretch of his lips lazy but perfect. "I should be surprised," he mused, groaning as he pushed back onto his knees, balancing on the bed almost precariously. "But I'm really not. Come on, we better get up; your stepmother is making breakfast. Go entertain her while I have a shower."

"You're having a shower while I play nice with satan? Rude," Samara snorted, kicking her legs out from beneath the covers. "I'm going to be disembowelled, but you care more about how you smell? You're a shitty boyfriend."

The man was smiling coyly. "Did you wanna hop in the shower too?" he purred, ducking his head to watch her through his lashes.

Pulling a face back, the woman leaned up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Maybe next time. If I dare get within three feet of you whilst naked the shotgun comes out," she shuddered, falling back to lean on her heels. "I like you alive."

There was some terribly endearing about the way he blinked dumbly, surprised that _she_ initiated the contact between them. It was usually him who reached out first, usually his lips that sought out her own, and she'd never bothered to break the pattern. Until now, however.

Absently, she made the decision to do it over and over in the future; the look on his face was too precious to never be seen again.

Hesitating for a few seconds, she didn't bother with a reason this time, moving to kiss his bare shoulder instead. The muscle twitched again, and the curious looked remained. "Use my shampoo again and I'll gut you like a pig," she murmured against his skin.

That garnered a better reaction, and the man snorted. "You wouldn't. It would be messy, and you don't like messes."

"I don't _mind_ messes. I mean, look at my life," Samara pretended to wince, ducking her head with a grin when he lazily swung out her way. It went wide, but she still followed the movement with a gasp. "Watch it. If I get another bruise my stepmother won't let me out of the house. Solitary confinement until I'm pretty again."

Any playful light was gone from his eyes the instant the words left her mouth, and the man crowded closer, tilting her head to study her lip. "It looks better already. The bruise is yellowing, and the wound is closed," he grumbled, thumbing the line of her chin before sighing. "You know I didn't mean to punch you, don't you?"

"No. Honestly thought you'd done it for shits and giggles," Samara announced dryly, watching his features before clicking her tongue. "Listen sunshine, I know you didn't mean too, so if you give me that damn puppy dog look again, we will have words. And they won't be pleasant words. They'll be rather rude words, mostly describing your character."

An eyebrow danced up to his hairline.

The doctor hummed in approval. "That's a good boy," she cooed, lifting her hands to pinch his cheeks. It earned her a roll of his eyes and a tired sigh. "Oh fine, go have your shower then. It's not like I was enjoying your company or anything."

Bucky wrinkled his nose. "You were just enjoying the fact I'm not wearing a shirt," he taunted, clambering off the bed and towards his case, digging through it for spare clothing. When red fabric appeared, she barely managed to hide her smile. "My eyes are up here, honey."

"Can you really blame a girl for staring?" Samara asked, openly raking a path with her eyes. "I mean, goddamn it, I could cry."

The assassin remained hunched over his case.

Swallowing down the first wave of concern, she crept closer, hand curling around a bare shoulder. "Hey, everything okay? If you haven't noticed yet, I don't do well with being ignored. It's a pet peeve," she joked lamely, catching a flash of colour from between silver. "Oh, yeah, that. You buy something at the mall with your five-finger discount?"

Bucky leant back on his heels, peering up at her. "I didn't steal it," he shrugged. "I got Stark to pay for it."

The laugh that left her was a snort more than anything. "Nicely done," Samara complimented, standing behind him. He may have needed a shower, but his hair was like silk nonetheless less and it was contact she knew he welcomed. "So, what did you scam him into purchasing?" she asked, dragging her nails lightly across his scalp. "I hope it was expensive?"

"Expensive enough," Bucky grunted, playing with the bag idly. "Do you have a hair fetish?"

Samara snorted, tugging on a strand. "Leave me alone. I like your hair; it's long and soft and so damn feminine you should be in a shampoo commercial," she teased. "Back to you. What's in the bag. My curiosity can only take so much."

Instead of answering, he shoved the bag in her direction and scampered towards the shower like the devil was on his tail.

"Uh, okay, right, so that happened," Samara breathed, readjusting her hold so the bag wouldn't fall. It was made from some golden cardboard, and she snooped through it almost happily, catching the sound of the shower running in the ensuite. "Chicken. I thought you were meant to be tough." Unable to make her fingers work properly, she upended the bag and dropped the contents onto her hand. A black velvet box was her prize, and she balanced it on her palm nervously. "Buck..." she whispered.

The coward stayed in the bathroom. Watching the door suspiciously, she remembered that a similar situation had happened between them once already – only she had been the one hiding and he'd been the one confusingly clutching a gift. The role reversal was nice, she'd admit, and it _was_ amusing to see an assassin cowering...

Samara chuckled softly, flicking the lid of the box up. " _Motherfuc –_ I mean, wow, what a lovely... gift… I don't…"

The bathroom door creaked open at the exclamation, but she didn't look up, the sound not managing to distract her from the golden gem blinking in the light. Her fingers drifted over first the stone, then the delicate chain before she scooped it up, letting it rest in her palm. The colour continued to prance about, looking like fifty different shades of amber at every moment, and hypnotizing her.

"Do you like it?" Bucky asked quietly, silver arm joining in the dance when the rising sun hit it. "I thought it would suit you."

Samara beamed up at him. "Help me put it on," she commanded, passing him the necklace and turning around. His fingers brushed along her neck, shifting her hair before resting the jewel in the hollow of her throat. "Buck, it's gorgeous. You upstaged me. I need to get you something better than a shirt now, you know?"

Bucky chuckled warmly. "It's the same colour as your eyes," he pointed out, brushing her hair back into place.

Spinning to face him again, she gave him her best smile, fingers already lifting to toy with the new weight. "It looks..." she whispered, blinking when the light hit it from the perfect angle. "It looks like sunlight shining through a decanter of whiskey. Your favourite colour."

Surprisingly enough, the assassin didn't argue, didn't try to deny anything and instead ran a hand over the back of his neck bashfully. His words were careful, voice pitched low. "You caught me. Is there anything else in the bag? I trust Stark about as far as I can throw him. He probably put a tracker in there so he could follow us."

Willing the blush burning her cheeks to fade, the doctor rummaged through the bag. "Yeah, but he's so little. You could probably throw him pretty far," she argued, tugging out a cream card with a frown. "He – uh, is this his – I have his number now? Because apparently, that's something he'd thought I'd need somewhere down the road."

"Probably thought you'd want a way to contact him after you read that file," Bucky murmured, taking the card before tucking it back into his case. At the continued appearance of her frown, he explained. "We'll keep it. Could come in handy later, you never know."

"You never know," Samara parroted slowly, her cheeks still bright red and burning. Pretending her features were their usual pale pallor, she cleared her throat, moving their attention back to the necklace and away from the billionaire. "I love it, Buck, thank you. It's perfect, really..."

The man cocked his head to the side. "It sounds like there's a _but_ in there somewhere..."

Rolling her eyes, she stretched up, kissing his chin. "No buts. It really is perfect. Now go have your shower, so we can head down for breakfast. If we stay here too long, my stepmother will spring a three-day camping trip on us," she warned.

Bucky made a sound in his throat. "You missed," he rumbled, tapping a silver digit against his lips.

" _Oh my –_ fine," Samara groused, using his arm as balance to shift up again. Thankfully, most of her pride remained intact, the man coming to meet her halfway and stop her from falling on her face. She couldn't keep the smile from her face as she pulled back, rocking onto her heels shyly. Despite morning breath and all, kissing him was steadily becoming more intriguing.

The assassin couldn't have looked any smugger if he tried. "Shower, breakfast, road," he listed, backing away but keeping an eye on her, like he expected her to disappear the minute he turned his back. "Or it'll be shower, breakfast, awkward conversation then camping."

Samara laughed loudly as the bathroom door shut again, hand flitting up to feel the smoothed edges of her gem. The soft feel of the gift made something warm bloom into being in her chest and she sighed, fighting not to wiggle excitably like a schoolgirl.

It had been two weeks. _Two._ How could she be so invested in him already?

* * *

 _Leonard went first, hands precise as he shifted the piece across the board. "Your move, angel," he pointed out needlessly._

 _Letting out a short hum, she mimicked his move; pushing a pawn two paces forward. "I'm sorry," she murmured, clearing her throat. "That it took me so long to stop by again. I've just be swamped with – "_

" – _with work and managing the office," Leonard finished for her, voice nothing more than a drone. He had stolen the words from her mouth, eyes tired even as they twinkled across at her. "I know, angel, I know. It's not easy running a business all on your own, hm?"_

 _Samara forced a weak chuckle. "Guess it's not," she admitted, brushing some hair away from her features. A rook snuck her way, inching along marble like it thought she wouldn't see it. Almost without thought, she moved a pawn out of harm's way, speaking through the action. "How's your little business blooming? The uh, last voice-mail you left said you have some new clients? Another university, was it?"_

 _The older male sighed, running a hand over his chin as he surveyed the board keenly. "Hmm? Oh yes, Greek this time around. I had to bust out my old notebooks. I was a little rusty, you understand," he smiled, wrinkling his nose childishly. "I almost had to back out. I thought the language had escaped me completely, but it appears that I just need to concentrate more nowadays. Doesn't come as easily as it used too."_

 _Samara fidgeted, knowing her father would catch the tick but unable to stop it. "You um, you and Elena are okay, right?" she asked, swallowing the lump of discomfort in her throat. "For money, I mean?"_

 _Leonard pulled a face. "Oh angel, we're fine," he soothed, flitting a hand in her direction. "We have savings should it come to that. Retirement isn't as far away as it used to be." The chuckle he let out was good, but she knew him well enough to see through the bared teeth and crinkled eyes. Looking up when she didn't take her turn, he let out a weary sigh at her expression. "Samara, I promise. We're fine. Did you see my baby outside? I've almost restored her completely."_

 _The doctor slumped in her chair. The redirecting comment was rather sly on his part, but she could see the point he'd made. If they were struggling for money, he wouldn't be wasting it on the rust bucket in the garage. "Restored her to what? She was built in the stone ages," Samara muttered, finally noticing she'd lost some pieces. With a frown, she moved her remaining knight before settling her chin in her hand. "As long as you're alright. I worry about you, you know..."_

 _Leonard snorted, taking out another of her pawns. "Please," he huffed. "You should start worrying about yourself. We're fine; it's your wellbeing we should be focusing on. You're important to me, angel."_

 _And that admission was all it took._

 _Samara squeezed her eyes shut, trying her damnest to pretend they weren't stinging. It was useless of course, and she felt the warm tears roll down to her chin before she could think to wipe them away. Thankfully, her father knew better than to fuss over her, and all he did was gently run a thumb across her cheek and coo to calm her down._

 _Leaning into his hand, she bit back a sob. "Daddy, I don't know what I'm doing," she cried, blinking open burning eyes. "I know where I want to be, but right now I'm just – I just don't know how I meant to get there. The paths are blurring."_

 _Leonard was soft, inside and out, as he spoke. "Everybody wants to be somewhere," he said, pulling something from his sleeve. "But it's how we get there that make us who we are."_

 _The handkerchief started erasing the evidence of her breakdown. "You read that on a cereal box," Samara snorted, sniffing back another harsher comment. He didn't understand the direction she was trekking, but she couldn't tell him, so she had to understand his words might not help. "Where I'm going... I'm not sure anymore. I can see where I want to be, and where I could end up. They're both so different and both equally as terrifying. It feels like if I take one wrong step I move from one finality to the other."_

 _It was almost strange that nothing she said was a lie, that the future was almost as clear as day to her eyes. Bucky stood at the end of a road in both possibilities, but whether he was whole, whether he was with her, seemed to depend on factors she couldn't work out. Every bump in the road was a test she had to pass. And pulling the trigger? Had that been her failing or her succeeding?_

" _I just don't know," she wailed silently, shaking her head like she could clear it. The fog remained and she winced when it threw her further into confusion. "Not anymore."_

 _Leonard was humming something, and the melody tugged at her memories but before she could place it, he'd started to use his voice for something different. "This sudden indecision of yours... Does it have anything to do with the boy currently entertaining my wife?" he questioned, one brow perched high on his head. "Last time we spoke you seemed bored with life maybe, but certain with it. And now? Well."_

 _Samara sat back, moving out of his reach like it would defend said boy from his scrutiny. "It's not Bucky's fault," she bit out, softening to add; "Per say..." when she heard the lie in her own words._

 _Her father only rolled his eyes affectionately. The action hadn't changed, even if the years had. "He's not what I expected you to pick, but at the same time I can't imagine you with anyone different," he mused, clicking his tongue. "Where did you find him? Does it have to do with... with the arm?"_

" _Prototype," she instantly provided, grimacing after the sharp delivery. "I guess it does. It wasn't easy for him, I don't think. The join is brutal and I – " Samara smothered the rest of her words, giving a smile instead. "I don't wanna bore you with the medical lingo. To make a long story short, there were complications and lucky for him, I'm not completely incompetent."_

 _Leonard's smile was genuine this time, and if he didn't trust her story then he was good at hiding it. "Lucky for him, you're difficult to shake off once you've latched on too. Poor boy stares at you like you're some miracle puzzle."_

 _Samara's brow was the one to dance up this time around._

" _Bucky," he continued, putting a heavy emphasis on the name, "Looks at you like he needs you, but he doesn't understand why. He gets this lost look on his face, and I just want to..."_

 _She knew how to finish that sentence. Samara shifted one of her pieces across the board and licked her lips, mindful of the bruise. "Slap some sense into him but hug him at the same time? Yup," she scoffed. "I know that feeling. Damn idiot is so much trouble, I swear."_

" _If you want people to believe you when you say that, you should make it sound more genuine," Leonard advised, tucking one of his pieces away in the corner of the board. She knew she should be paying more attention, should be focusing on every move his hands made, but she couldn't help but let her thoughts wander away. "You sound like your mother."_

 _Samara eyed him. "I do really mean it," she confirmed. "He's more trouble than he's worth."_

 _Leonard tuttered. "Then why are you still hanging on?"_

 _Opening her mouth, she was surprised when nothing came out. No snappy comeback, no sarcastic comment, nothing. Hurrying to press her lips together, she looked back to the board and bit back her annoyance._

 _When she looked up, Leonard smiled again, all hazy edges and aged affection. "Angel, if life is dragging you along, the trick is to pretend it's the other way around. You didn't plan for it? Surprise, but you actually did. Life can't take you places you don't wanna be if you decide you want to be there. Control the path."_

" _Control the path?" she echoed, checking her pieces before counting his own. When had she taken out some of his? And when had she lost those pieces he was guarding? Samara swallowed a sigh. "It's not always that easy."_

 _Leonard rolled his eyes. "Quitter."_

 _Samara snapped up, lips curving downwards. "Oh please," she snorted. "Save it for someone who'll actually take offence. Or someone who has shame – which is something I seem to be severely lacking in. That little trick hasn't worked on me in years."_

 _The sound of an exhausted sigh made her risk a glance up, catching the man looking every day his age. "Angel," Leonard started shortly. "It's your life. The only people who can chose the path you end up taking are the ones you let decide. If you make the decision before they can, then you're all set. But if you let them decide for you, then you're going to be up shit creek without a paddle."_

" _What if…" Samara bit her lip, eyes catching a fault in his chess plan. "What if I want to make the decision with them? Together? What if, what if I want to know what decision they would make before I make my own?"_

 _Leonard pursed his lips. "That feeling sounds familiar, in all honesty," he admitted. "The desire to let someone help you isn't uncommon, angel. I felt it with your mother. It's no surprise to me that you're feeling it too with Bucky. It's human."_

 _Samara closed her eyes, sensing the beginnings of a conversation she wasn't ready for. "Don't take it there," she requested softly._

 _A hand circled around her own, knuckles rubbed under a tender touch. "I'm not going to say anything you're not willing to hear," Leonard promised, patting the skin once before pulling back. "But maybe you need to sleep on it, evaluate where you stand with people. After all, he must be pretty important if you're rewriting your life for him."_

 _Damn it, why was her father reading so much into this? She wasn't asking for help with the assassin, she was asking for help with her own troubles. Bucky had absolutely nothing to do with it._

" _It wasn't exactly a planned event," Samara gritted out through her teeth, realising she'd paused for too long. "He literally tore into my life, and now he's tearing it apart. Forgive me for trying to rebuild and – and why the hell are we using some stupid metaphor. My life isn't a pathway. It's a street with a dead end waiting for me. I can't change shit about that," she growled._

 _Leonard let out another breath, and every word she said aged him even more. The urge to take back her biting comments was real, but impossible to carry out. "Samara, that cynicism of yours is something I've never understood. You didn't get it from your mother, or from me," he shook his head._

" _I got it from real life," she groused. "Something you don't seem to be living in."_

 _Something flashed in his warm gaze, something she was tempted to call angered irritation. "I can't sugar coat this for you," Leonard realised with a firm nod. "Whatever midlife crisis you're having, I can't fix with words. I can't make these decisions for you. If Bucky is worth it – and please don't argue, I understand enough to see what this is about – then you make the choice. If you're scared, if you want to run away and hide, then it looks like the decision has been made for you. Things that matter are the things we fight for."_

 _Samara stared._

 _There was nothing else she could manage, not when the aged eyes were burning into her own so strongly. She'd heard her father rant and rave before, had heard him speak about things he was passionate about, but he'd never showed such emotion before. This was something he really believed in. Something he needed her to understand._

 _Gold flickered down, taking in the white and black checkered board. "Check mate," she whispered, shifting one of her pieces forward before slumping back. "I win."_

 _Her father leant forward to study the board, hovering like he expected foul play. "So you have," he allowed, nodding carefully. "Well done."_

 _Samara opened her mouth, snapping it closed hurriedly. There was something she needed to say, but she couldn't put it into words. If this really was as simply complicated as the man was making it out to be, then she had to make a decision before it was made for her. She had to pick a side before someone shoved her past the lines and told her it was too late._

 _As she dove into her own thoughts, wanting to weigh out the consequences, she realised something rather suddenly. The choice had already been made. "Daddy, I think I – "_

" _Leonard, darling! Dinner's ready!"_

 _Both their heads shot towards the door, the heavy atmosphere beginning to fade with the shout. When the door creaked open, she was expecting the practised smile of her stepmother, but blue eyes cautiously glanced into the room, lighting up when they caught sight of the pair of them._

 _Bucky gave her a warm look. "I think I understand what you meant now," he allowed, straightening up as her father stood. He politely made room when the man stormed towards him, letting him through the doorway before continuing; "She can cook, I'll give her that."_

 _The repeat of her words made her smile, albeit sadly. "So, now that you've seen her; think he's an idiot?"_

" _I think he's in love," Bucky wrinkled his nose, giving an uninterested shrug. "It makes you do stupid things. Come on, if you don't hurry I'm going to eat all your food for you, and then where will you be?"_

 _Samara watched him walk away, heart trying to both sink in despair and pound in happiness. She knew exactly where she was, and exactly where she would be – because now that she was paying attention, it was clear she'd made her decision days ago._

 _She almost wondered how she'd missed it._

* * *

The building was so nondescript she almost wanted to double check the address. From what she'd seen of the fucked-up corporation so far – Hydra liked things big and flashy, a metaphorical neon sign wherever they went. The silver contraption paying as her companion's arm wasn't exactly low profile, and the blood red octopi their symbol created was anything but subtle.

They almost seemed to _want_ people's attention, but then there was this? This house that looked like a breeze would knock it on its ass.

Samara gave her partner a short look, shoving her straw in her mouth. "I call bullshit," she announced, almost smiling when he rolled his eyes. "Come on Buck, look at this place. It's a graveyard for happiness and dreams. I feel like I'll catch something if I step outside the car."

The assassin was fighting back laughter, his lips twitching ever so slightly and blue eyes humoured. Usually he'd let the sound fly, unashamed to smile in her presence, but today he showed more care in how he played his hand, instead only giving her a cautious look of amusement. "It's what I expected," he admitted, looking down to the papers. "He wouldn't want attention, so blending in is a safe bet. Be as mundane as everyone else and nobody looks twice."

"Seems boring to me," she grumbled, sucking up the sweetened coffee like it would save her life. "How we playing this then? He doesn't have a wife too, does he? I can't see anyone through the windows."

"That's because they've been covered up."

Samara leant forward, squinting. "Oh, I'll be damned," she breathed, slumping back. "He did cover them. What's the use in that? That's not exactly blending in. Who the hell boards up their bloody windows?"

Bucky made a displeased sound in the back of his throat, slapping the papers down. "You're not coming in," he declared shortly, already holding up a hand like he was prepared for her argument. "Don't even try convince me otherwise. I only need one thing from him, and I'm not going to let this get any messier than it has to be. He'll be more stubborn than the doctor, and more ruthless. I don't know what he'll do if he realises he's cornered."

Popping her lips together, the doctor waved a hand. "You don't need to side line me," she groused, pouting openly now.

"Yes, I do, because if I didn't, you'd find your own way in," Bucky murmured, reaching out to pluck the coffee from her hand and lace his fingers through her own. "Samara, please don't get involved. It's not worth the risk."

It took everything not to argue, and she clamped down on the comment she longed to make, instead tightening her grip. "Alright," she breathed, shrugging when his eyes lit up in victory. "I _guess_ I can stay in the car – I mean my coffee's already here and everything. You're coming back though, right? If you don't, I'm drinking your coffee too."

Bucky grinned, and the action made something similar to nervousness shoot down her spine. "Touch my coffee and you die," he announced primly. "And I'd like you alive. I need you to do something for me."

And _that_ was why she was nervous…

Samara studied him, reading his expression. "Do you now?" she asked, realising the look in his eyes was giving her nothing. If she was reading him, then he was in a completely different language; one she didn't understand. "And what is that exactly?"

A cream coloured card took up her field of vision. "This," Bucky chuckled, tucking it between her lips. "I told you it might come in handy later, didn't I? So while I'm in there, you're going to be in here, talking to your new best friend," he decided, tapping his fingers on the dash and watching the street. He seemed entertained when she spat out the cardboard with a look of disgust. "Tell him that we're handing ourselves in."

"We're doing what now?" Samara blanched, fighting back rising panic. If they handed themselves in, then that was that. She had spent too many hours poring over the decision to stick with him, and now that she finally realises her place, he rips the rug out from under her? "No, we can't just – "

Bucky's palm covered the entirety of her lips and chin. "Remind them that Steve promised we wouldn't be hurt. He said we'd be safe with them. Tell them I'll be needing their help with something very important," he commanded, features faltering before he continued. "And also; that you're extremely sorry for braining the red head, kicking the bird in the balls and for spilling Stark's coffee all over him."

The doctor grumbled into the palm covering her mouth.

"I'm not removing my hand until it's an agreement," Bucky quirked a brow. "I'd like a _yes Bucky, I can do that Bucky,_ if you wouldn't mind."

Samara glared until his fingers peeled themselves away, automatically going to wipe her lips with her free hand. "Fuck you Bucky, I don't wanna do that Bucky," she snarled, checking the street when he glanced at it again. "Why are you calling them?"

"Because while you're helpful, I need a little more than you can give me," Bucky smiled grimly, squeezing her hand consolingly. "If what I remember isn't my mind playing tricks on me, then I need them more than I need freedom right now – and anyway, once this was all done, I had nothing left to fight against. I was planning on going to Steve. Doing it this way makes it feel less like giving up."

 _You were planning on leaving me?_

Samara cleared her throat awkwardly, fight draining quicker than she liked to admit. While she'd been planning her future, he'd apparently been planning his as well. "Oh, right, yeah," she nodded once, rolling the card through her fingers. As subtly as she could, she took her hand back from the soft grip he had on it. "Sure, I'll tell them that. And I guess, tell them where we are? What you're doing?"

Bucky studied her easily, seeing something she didn't. "Yes, that too," he demanded slowly, pursing his lips. "Just so you know, you're not getting away from me that easily. Steve said you'd be coming with me. I don't know how to break his to you darling, but he sold you to the highest bidder."

The smile she was given was warmly smug, the man apparently pleased with the deal. "Great, stuck with you am I?" she muttered, biting back joy.

"Forever and ever," Bucky drawled, features beginning to harden and loose the affectionate light. "So, tell them where we are, what we're doing and that I need their help. I don't care how you sugar-coat it, just get them here. Preferably as soon as possible. The Colonel won't exactly be difficult, but my decision to keep him alive could very well change if I have to put up with him for too long."

Samara gave a short wince. "That I understand," she admitted, running a hand over her lips. "How you gonna do it then? Knock on the front door?"

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "He's not going to open that door, no matter what I do, and I don't exactly have the time to try and break in. He probably has more alarm systems than you have sarcastic comments. I need another way in," he growled, shaking his head and looking over the street. "But what?"

The doctor tried to help, raking a path along the roads with her eyes. "If he wants to lay low, then he'll anything to stop you from drawing attention to him," she murmured, gaze landing on something useful. "Right. Seat belts on."

Bucky automatically clicked his into place. "Why?"

The car engine revved in reply, and with a slammed foot on the accelerator she went from parked a few houses down to parked in his driveway. Only problem was, his driveway was taken up by the plain silver car he must have claimed as his own.

The collision wasn't harsh but she felt it enough to snap forward against the seatbelt, the front of her beautiful car no doubt dented and ugly from the hit and her head throbbing lightly from the jarring stop. "You owe me," she grunted, loosening the band around her chest. Rubbing the abused skin, she made the mental note to check for bruising later. "You owe me a car and a lot of cuddles."

Bucky was cursing up a storm behind her, bitching as she spilled from the car and surveyed the damage with her hands on her head. "Samara what the hell are you – shit," he ducked behind the vehicle, hiding his larger body rather well. "He's looking through the window."

Hearing that, the doctor turned, hoping to catch a glance. "Not anymore, he's not," she whispered through her teeth, gesturing for the man to follow her towards the house. "Hello? I'm so sorry, my foot got jammed and I couldn't hit the brakes? Hello, are you home? Shit, I'm so sorry about that, really." Her hand lifted to rap against the doorframe, catching the slightest scuffle through the wood. "Hey, I don't really have insurance, and I don't want to get the cops – "

She shot the assassin a smug look when a voice interrupted her; _"No cops!"_

The sound of movement was closer now, and she stepped to the side to let the assassin in closer. "Okay, look, let's just deal with this like – " The door opened and before the man could even get his nose out, a metal hand had darted in to grab his chin. "Civilised people."

Bucky grunted when the man started struggling, not even breaking a sweat when the body tried to rip away from his grip. "Hello Colonel," he grinned, all teeth and harsh blue eyes. "We need to have a talk. Doctor, make the call, would you?"

It was a bland dismissal, and she managed a short nod through the tinge of hurt, backing away when board shoulders forced their way through the door. He was blocking her out of this for her own good, she _knew_ that, but it still felt a little raw around the edges. It felt like he was pushing her out before she could wiggle her way in deeper into his way of life.

And while that may have seemed like he was protecting her, keeping her from the danger of cloaked operations and weaponised assassins, it felt more like he was trying to protect himself from her.

Shaking her head, Samara stalked back to the car, pushing her irritation towards the damage lining the front. It was mostly cosmetic, something she understood rather well, but it still managed to make her heart ache. What was she gonna give up next for the blue-eyed bastard? First it had been her home, then her innocence, and most recently her way of life. Now he'd stolen her car?

She wasn't sure what was worse and – oh, nope, no, she knew. The car was a low blow, even for him.

Slamming down on the annoyance, she dropped into the car seat and tugged out her cell. "Now is not the time," she reminded the air around her, punching in the number from the card. "Do your suicide mission first and then be pissed at the little shit."

Pressing the phone to her ear, she waited.

It clicked into connection. _"Hello, this is the personal number of Tony Stark. How may I direct you today?"_

Samara managed to keep the frown from her voice, not recognizing the accent that sounded. "Um, hello?" she tried, tucking her body further into the seat. No one had emerged from their houses following the crash, but she tried to make herself smaller on the off chance someone was peeking through their window. "So, uh, I take it you're not the guy I'm looking for?"

" _You are ringing from an unknown number,"_ British vowels pointed out, almost sounding amused. _"As a safety precaution, I am the person to answer and possibly direct your call. My name is Jarvis, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. How may I help you today, Ms…?"_

She didn't quite manage to hide her wince this time around. "Oh right, um, of course you would want my name," she chuckled weakly, now wincing at her own idiocy. "Uh, I'm Samara? Doctor Samara Masons?"

Silence echoed then; _"Doctor Masons? Is that really you?"_ The new voice, while almost familiar in a sense, was still strange to her ears. It would be the billionaire most likely, judging by the smooth tone and ringing confidence. There was also the whole, this is his private number thing too. _"You know, I was expecting a call from you a lot sooner."_

Samara bit her upper lip. "Tony, right?" she guessed slowly.

A smooth chuckle was her confirmation. _"The one and only,"_ Stark announced. _"So, our special snowflake gave you the necklace then, huh? What do you think? It cost me a pretty penny, but with a face like yours, I'd say it was worth every dollar,"_ he continued, apparently lacking any shame. _"But I don't think you called to thank me. Something wrong? Lovers quarrel? You want a real man?"_

Samara rolled her eyes, already mentally exhausted from their conversation. It had only been three bloody minutes. "Um, no, I'm quite happy with the man I've got," she shrugged awkwardly, realising a few seconds too late that he couldn't actually see the action.

" _Liar."_

The argument bubbled up, but she managed to slam it under the weight of her mind, forcing the more pressing issue to light. "Listen, this is a little weird, I mean…" she cleared her throat. "I called because he told me too?"

Thankfully, the other man didn't treat her words as a question. _"Barnes wanted you to call me?"_

Idly, the doctor started picking at the material of her sleeves, trying to find something for her shaking hands to do. "He um, said something about surrender," she muttered bitterly, resisting the urge to poke out her tongue. The assassin was behind boarded windows, he wouldn't see it. "Well, actually, he said something about a favour?"

The man's voice returned but it sounded distant, like he'd put the phone down and wandered away. _"Barnes wants us to do him a favour? That's rich,"_ Stark snorted. _"He sent you to butter us up, didn't he?"_

"I'm – I'm on speaker, aren't I?" Samara rolled her eyes with sudden clarity, letting out a tired sigh. "How many people are in the room then? Is that weird guy in the bird costume present? I uh, I was told I had to apologize for damaging the family jewels," she winced, features contorting before lighting up in remembrance. "Oh, and the red head? Apparently knocking people out is rude – even in the assassin industry."

It was a female voice that answered her this time. _"You're not forgiven."_

Samara pulled a face, not really sure how she was meant to be handling this conversation. "Um, okay, that was rude," she muttered, clicking her tongue awkwardly. "Anyway, yeah. Bucky wants to switch sides and he said he was promised safety? Ask Steve, cause I dunno anything."

The next voice was neither practised, nor female, but instead excitable – like a puppy promised a treat. _"He wants to join us? Really?"_ It was the infamous blondie, she was positive. Spandex had a certain ring to it. _"But why now? What's this favour he wants from us?"_

"Um?" Samara looked towards the house, begging for help. "Okay, so we're at this guy's place," she started, wondering if she should tell it like a story. Her assassin hadn't exactly warned her about how uncomfortably strange the conversation would be. "Colonel Hydra-has-been, or something, I really don't know, and I think he has something? Something Buck wants?"

A thoughtful hum echoed. _"Why does he need our help with that?"_ Steve asked slowly, not sounding annoyed, but curious. _"I take it that if you're here talking with us, he's already inside?"_

The doctor nodded. "Yeah, yeah he is. Little shit side lined me," she grumbled. "I don't think he needs your help _getting_ the thing, but instead _managing_ the thing? Look, I don't know how to say this, but I'm super uncomfortable right now and I really wanna hang up. Can you like, track my number or something and like, come?"

" _Thing management? How terribly vague,"_ Stark sniggered. _"And dirty. I like her."_

After the comment, a discussion came into being, one that apparently lacked a place for her input but still had one for her ears. It wasn't obvious whether they knew she could still hear them, but she took advantage nonetheless.

" _Cap, come on, don't tell me you trust this. He's probably pulling our leg, playing on your attachment to him. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd got Hydra waiting to pin us down, to do some real damage so he can finally escape. This isn't exactly your best friend anymore, remember?"_ As the voice died into silence, she openly winced, recognizing the deep drawl from the parking lot.

It was birdbrain…

The next voice was both familiar, and saying things she didn't expect. _"I say we go,"_ Stark voted. _"What's the harm? It's not like he can take us all down, and he doesn't work for Hydra. You might have missed a thing or two Wilson, but he kinda hates them now."_

" _Hates them enough to tear down their bases,"_ Red head pointed out, taking her turn to speak with purring and lilting tones. _"He's been stealing files left right and centre. You saw the mess he left in Chicago – he was looking for something, and I think he found it. This isn't a one-man operation, and even with the doctor, it would be like bringing a knife to a gun fight if he chooses to go up against them."_

A snort sounded. _"Even with the doctor?"_ Birdbrain mocked. _"You make it sound like she matters."_

Okay so ouch, that hurt.

Before she could butt in, someone else spoke up to save her pride. _"Oh, she matters. If you want proof, just look at Chicago. When you grabbed her, he looked damn near ready to kill. I've seen the footage. And someone killed that Hydra agent. I wouldn't be surprised if he tried his hand at hurting Masons only to find she wasn't exactly helpless. She has her own assassin guard dog."_

"Actually, he's not really a guard dog," Samara muttered, finally raising her voice. "More like that cat you see wandering the neighbourhood. It's a little scruffy, no collar, and you start to wonder if it's on its own or if someone cared for it. So, you leave out food, and then the little shit gets attached and starts giving you the sad eyes, and it ends with it domesticating you and somehow sleeping on your couch?" she finished, almost happily. "Bucky is like that – only he sleeps in a bed because couches are too beneath him."

As the others took in the fact she'd been listening in, one man took in something else. _"I thought you were beneath him? Or is he a bottom?"_

Someone groaned out; _"I needed that visual, thanks a bunch you ass,"_ at the same time a voice squawked; _"That's my best friend, I don't need – why the hell would you say – I hate you so much."_

Samara bit back a chuckle. "Anyway yeah, I can hear you guys loud and clear."

" _Jarvis, you know mute is a thing, right?"_

As a prim voice answered the comment, the doctor worked on getting her next words right. "Just listen," she started slowly, licking her lips. "I know that my word probably means diddly squat to you guys, but he's not working for Hydra. He seems pretty set on wiping them from the map, but I think he needs your help to do it. Are you guys gonna come or what?"

" _You're right. Word means diddly squat."_

Steve barked out a reprimand. _"Falcon, can it,"_ he demanded, letting out a weary sigh that even she could hear through the phone. _"We're already tracking your number, and yes, we're coming but…"_

Samara felt her heart speed up, the strangely calm pace starting to resemble a drum. "But what?" she breathed. "But he won't be safe?"

" _No, no, no – "_

"I may not be an assassin, or some rich genius, but I'm a cosmetic surgeon," Samara warned, straightening up. It was the call giving her the courage to speak up, she knew that much. If the super soldier had been standing in front of her she probably would've screamed and ran to hide. "Bucky will be safe, or god help me, I'll make you look every day your age, you got that?"

The silence that followed was tense, but not mocking. They'd taken the threat as seriously as they'd taken any other, and she was almost pleased that the group of superheroes were treating her equally.

" _Looks like he's got a guard dog too,"_ Natasha mused. _"We'll be there in twenty. Stark will be there sooner. You okay with the wait?"_

And now the woman forgives her? Of course, _of course_ it would take a threat to earn her respect. Samara closed her eyes thankfully, slumping back against the cushioned seat and breathing out a short chuckle. "Yeah," she whispered. "That's fucking perfect."

" _Catch you on the flip side!"_ Stark crowed, before his voice started to fade. _"Jarvis, get me a suit. The Mark – "_ The call ended abruptly.

With a trembling sigh, the doctor lowered the phone, letting her hand slip to fall against her legs. That had taken more strength that she thought, and all it had been was a phone call. How did these people fight wars, when calling them had been a _battle_ to her? Sucking in a breath, trying to draw strength from the feeling of crisp air burning down her throat, she moved to straighten her clothing as though the conversation had ruined them.

There were upsides to being side lined, she supposed. Now more than ever, she was needing time to think, time to spend roving through her own mind. Her father had uprooted her more with his little speech, than the assassin had when he demanded a road trip.

She'd been so damn unsettled she hadn't taken the time to do a victory dance. Twenty-nine years and she'd finally beaten him at his ow game…

Reaching out, she scooped up her iced coffee again, idly sucking on the straw and relishing in the taste of sugar. So, side lined and finally given all the time she needed to think this over. Great. Brilliant. Just what she needed. She'd get right on it.

And was that the door opening? Damn, outta time.

Bucky was careful to look casual as he left the house, hands tucked into his pockets and features calm as he hopped down the steps. "Samara," he greeted softly, schooled expression crumbling the closer he got. "How'd the phone call go? Did you apologize?"

"Yeah, yeah, I said sorry," she muttered, moving to stand and reach out for him. He seemed thankful, sinking into the loose embrace with an exhausted sigh. "Not sure if I was forgiven, but I tried so points for effort and all that. They're on their way, twenty minutes' tops." Her smile was practised, but not entirely fake as she pulled back to watch him. "You okay?"

Expecting a lie, she was shocked when he shrugged. "I've been better," Bucky admitted, pulling something out of his waistband. The leather-bound book was a deep red, the front embellished with a dark star. "I got it."

Samara spared it a quick look, more interested in blue eyes. "You wanted a book?" she teased absently, humming as she shifted some stray locks from his features. As always, he let her touch, closing his eyes in obvious exhaustion. She was almost happy he wasn't bothering to hide it from her. "I suppose I've killed men for less."

Bucky chuckled. "Sure you have, darling," he murmured, switching places with her and dropping into the car seat. Absently, he tugged her down, burying his nose in her nape. "We're burning it."

"I'll bring the marshmallows," Samara tried, grinning shortly when he peered up through his lashes. "Never had smores, huh?"

He muttered a denial, pressing the leather into her hands so he could wrap his arms around her midsection. "Hold onto it for me, yeah? Don't let Stark get it. Or Steve," he added pointedly, yawning into the small width of her shoulders. "God, I wanna sleep."

Petting his hair, she tucked the book under her arm. "Then sleep, genius," she snorted, smothering down the urge to open the book and thumb through it. Unless the assassin beside her said she could, then she wouldn't. "It's not too hard. Close your eyes, and pretend to be asleep until you actually are! It's like magic, I swear."

Blue eyes were studying the area as an engine roared around them, scoping the skies. "I can't," Bucky grumbled, straightening up minutely but openly tightening his grip. "Not yet. We're not finished," he whispered, lifting his head from her skin.

The red and gold suit hit the ground with a thundering crash.

* * *

 **Because I missed last week's update, this one is twice the usual length. Oh yes children, this chapter is literally ten thousand words long and yes, my brain does hurt, how did you know?**

 **I hope you liked it? The phone call was a bitch.**

 **Taila xx**


	32. Screw September, just don't wake me up

There were a lot of ways the next hour could've panned out.

It wasn't like they'd be coming unprepared – not to pick up someone who was behind practically every notable death in the past fifty years. There would be weapons, shields, wings too probably. Steel bars and even steelier glares.

Spandex might have promised safety, he might've promised a place to call home, but that was to the man he thought was his best friend. It wasn't that the assassin beside her had changed so completely, but he'd changed _enough_. There were flashes of the man he'd been, but apart from that, he was sorely lacking in knowing anything more than fleeting memories and what his muscles told him.

There were a lot of ways the next hour could've panned out – but the future that was promised to them? It wasn't one of them.

Stark landed with a bang, his red and gold suit bright under the afternoon sun, and she waited almost patiently for shit to hit the fan. It would be rather spectacular too, she didn't doubt. The news had played their fights on air before, and watching the suit and shield take down enemies was like watching a choreographed dance. It would be a beautiful way to die.

The mask came up to reveal handsome features, and despite expecting it, she felt her throat close up. This was it. This was the past few weeks coming to a terrible end. All she'd done, all she'd learnt was going to waste and she never even got to –

 _"You guys okay?"_

Stark had thrown them both with the words. From his place around her, the assassin had tensed up before slumping over completely, using her shoulder as support as he'd let out a rumbling and slightly manic laugh. Thinking back on it, neither of them had actually bothered to reply to the question – instead, both seemingly collapsed, going limp like a puppet with the strings cut.

But the man in the suit had been fine with it. Without any preamble, Stark had dropped to the ground and crossed his legs like a child, something she didn't think would be that comfortable in the metal armor, before beginning to babble about the stupidest things – shifting from the weather on his flight over, to the texture of the waffles he'd had that morning for breakfast.

So, the billionaire wasn't _quite_ what she expected.

At one point, she'd started to reply to the man, feeling the numbness fade into discomfort and tried to remedy it in the safest way she knew how. Bucky didn't seem overly surprised when she joined in the rambling, almost comforted if anything by the constant stream of words and purr of her voice.

When the plane came – landing in the middle of the street too, the bloody wankers – she realized that no, _this_ was it. The red and gold armor was meant to induce some sense of false calm, meant to stop them from running, but not meant to attack without backup. The backup which was now walking down a lowered ramp smoothly, like waves lapping at the shore.

Bucky moved just as easily, just as lazily, pushing to his feet and coming to stand so he protected the length of her body with his own. The small protection detail was all he bothered to do, the only way he acknowledged the new threat. There were no knives, no guns, no bullets.

It must've been about then that she'd noticed spandex wasn't actually wearing _spandex_.

It was nice to meet Steve Rogers. He was a lot less solid than his counterpart – all soft blue eyes and blond tufts of hair rather than steel edges and set lips – and while the lack of a uniform was pointedly obvious; she didn't question it. The smile he wore, all bright and youthful edges, wouldn't have suited a shield. It wasn't the captain coming for a captive, it was the man coming for his best friend.

The red head and bird boy had flanked him, one relaxed but the other tense. Steve didn't seem to care about that either, nothing managing to kill his grin as he looked the assassin up and down. _"It's good to see you, Buck. So what's the plan?"_

Bucky had gestured to the house, told them who hid behind the walls and smirked when armor stalked through the door with a robotic growl.

And that was that.

* * *

Steve was trying – he really was – to reconnect with Bucky.

He refused to crowd them both, seemingly cautious about making his best friend feel cornered, and wore a smile despite the awkward silences and pointed looks. He engaged them in conversation, quickly learning things the assassin didn't like to speak about and avoiding them like the plague. He only touched if he had express permission; if the brunet touched him first or knew it was coming _. He tried._

And because he was making such a conscious effort, all hopeful eyes and nervous smiles, she felt bad to see most of it thrown back in his face. Bucky knew who the blond was, understood their past relationship, but he didn't seem as happy to be reunited as she'd thought he would be.

The fifth time she watched said hopeful eyes flash with hurt, she took it as her cue to intervene.

"Hey, gorgeous, darling, love of my life," Samara murmured, catching a silver elbow in hopes it would slow the brunet down. "I get that you're all dark and broody, but I swear, if you kick the puppy one more time I will be forced to kick _you,"_ she warned, not bothering to acknowledge the flare of surprise on his features. "Don't give me that look, you know exactly what you're doing to him."

Bucky checked to make sure no one was _actively_ listening, before ducking his head closer to her own. "I don't know what to say," he hissed, slowing to a complete stop and tugging her to the side. The others milled about; not willing to let them out of their sight but willing to give them privacy. "What if I say the wrong thing and he realizes I'm not _him._ He's only helping because he thinks I'm some ghost of patriotic past."

That forced an unamused snort to sound between them. "Christmas past," she corrected breezily. "And stop that, would you? Do you honestly think that in seventy years, you're the only one who changed? Do you think that's the exact same man you left behind? I hate to break it to you princess, but it ain't."

Bucky gave the blond soldier a dubious look, eyes flicking between gold irises and broad shoulders.

"Hey, come on," Samara gave her brightest smile, demanding his attention by grabbing both hands in her own. "No one is gonna understand what you went through better than he will. In a way, he went through the same damn thing, and now you're both stuck in a time you don't know," she pointed out, giving a limp shrug when he shot her a dark look. "I'm kinda right, and you know it."

Her hands were softly squeezed, the assassin holding back most of his strength. "I kinda know it," Bucky countered thickly, attempting his own smile. "No one will understand change better than he will, so I can't hold it against him. Okay."

Samara hummed, reaching up to peak the corner of his lips. "That's a good boy," she allowed, starting to drag him back towards the group of superheroes. "Now get that fine ass moving, because dude, did you see this tower? I must inspect every inch of it, use every coffee maker, and jump on every expensive mattress. Don't ask, only know that it's on the to-do list."

"Mattress jumping is on your to-do list?" Bucky repeated slowly, giving the soldier a nod when they stood close again. The doctor was pleased to note that familiar shoulders didn't tense up – the assassin apparently taking her advice and trying to reconnect. "Is there an innuendo in there I'm missing?"

Unamused was the new flavor of the day, and she glared his way. "Coffee is on my to-do list. Honestly. Get your mind out of the gutter, old man."

Bucky only grunted in response, his usually witty tongue muted by the company of others. Over his bowed head, she shot them all an apologetic look, wincing when they only smiled back in understanding and continued to lead the way, bustling into an elevator.

Samara gave a silent sigh. It would've been a lot easier if Bucky's hesitance had a _reason_ – if these people were acting suspicious or shifty, but they weren't. The team of heroes were being welcoming, and okay, maybe their hands were never far from their respective weapons, and maybe birdbrain had yet to change into sweatpants again, but they didn't threaten.

They were being cordial, and her apologetic and weak smile didn't seem to make up for it.

But apparently, the blond soldier was unbothered, following the behavior with a wide smile like he knew the pattern. Then again considering the assassin was his best friend, she didn't doubt that he did. This was probably old news to him.

"So…" Samara shifted, putting her smaller body between two broad ones. "I need to know; was he always this bloody pouty?" she asked, voice taking on a hushed but obnoxiously loud whisper. "He does it too perfectly for it to be a new thing. He must've practiced for years."

Steve gave an obedient chuckle. "I'm not going to bother lying, ma'am," he promised, shaking his head in amusement. "He was always this pouty. Most woman would fall at his feet if he jutted out the lower lip, so believe me when I say he did it a lot. Even tested his luck on men and military alike. I don't actually think it ever failed."

Bucky decided then to make his first contribution to conversation, of course in the form of a grunt. "It failed on Peggy," he muttered, openly reaching out to grab his doctor and tug her closer. The action didn't even shock her anymore – he was possessive through and through.

"Only because that woman fell for nothing," Steve shrugged.

"She fell for you, didn't she?"

The comment didn't sound like the right one to make, but the blond didn't react with anything more than bashful chuckle, his hand coming up to wipe the nape of his neck. The embarrassed flush to his cheeks was endearing, and seemed right at home on the pale skin. "Uh, you see Bucky, that was uh," Steve bit his lower lip. "That was complicated?"

Bucky snorted. "Nice try."

Steve managed an irritated look, nose wrinkling. "Don't even start," he grumbled, crossing his arms as the elevator climbed higher up the tower. "Like you're one to talk – _new day, new girl_ used to be your motto."

Samara quirked a brow, and instantly the assassin started spluttering, making excuses and insults alike. It was entertaining enough to watch, but she couldn't resist the urge to check over her shoulder, making sure the others were as relaxed as the super soldiers. The other three didn't seem awkward per say, but the bulky pack on birdbrains back wasn't making the tight space a comfortable one.

Dark eyes clashed with her own, lighting up in challenge. "Can I help you?"

"I was just looking at your costume, chill," she grinned, shoving both hands in her pockets innocently. The action seemed to put him on guard within seconds, his eyes narrowing behind the visor. "So… you like birds?"

Stark drew attention with an amused snort. "Please don't get him started," he groaned, head tipping back. "If he starts squawking, he'll never stop. It's the biggest downside of having a pet parrot, I swear. They never shut up."

Samara only grinned wider.

Before she could reply however – something quippy about parrots – the elevator doors opened and granted them access to the penthouse. It was all sleek designs and gleaming metal, something that should've been cold and unwelcoming but instead managed to come across as warm and homely. If it was technology, then it was modern and advanced. If it was comfort, it looked like the softest mattress. Being rich really had it perks.

"Welcome to my not so humble abode!" Stark announced with flourish, gesturing to the length of carpeted flooring. "You two will be sharing a room, obviously. Not because I'm running out of space or anything, but mostly because I don't trust _him_ not to break things out of spite," he muttered, sending the assassin a heated glare from under thick brows. "And that was the grand tour, you're welcome."

Samara quirked a curious brow, impressed by her surroundings but not entirely in awe. "The grand tour consists of an elevator, the pent house, and the hanger bay?" she asked dryly, turning to share a look with blue eyes. "Forgive me for being underwhelmed."

Pointing her way in silent warning, the genius tuttered. "Don't even start with me. If I took you into my workshop you'd faint on the spot. Probably hit your head on the way down too," Stark mused, brow coming together. "Change of plans, I'm not taking you into my workshop. Last thing I need is _winter wonderland_ over there getting pissy with me because you're hurt. I happen to like my face – don't need him rearranging it."

"It's _snowflake_ to you," Samara corrected, crossing her arms against her chest and staring the billionaire down. _"Mister Snowflake."_

A low growl echoed somewhere from her side, and she remembered the assassin about the same time a silver digit jabbed her ribcage. "I thought we had a deal," Bucky muttered, sending her a pointed look as she scrambled out of reach. " _Snowflake_ or those tiresome winter soldier jokes. You don't get both."

"What, so you'd prefer _winter wonderland?"_ the doctor demanded, straightening out her shirt and sticking out her tongue. When his brow darted up at the challenge, she took another obvious step back, putting red hair between her and him. "It makes you sound like a ride in Disney Land. Here I was, doing you a favor and this is how you repay me?" she groused absently, studying her surroundings a little closer now that she was free of his shadow.

The tower _was_ rather nice.

Not amazing or anything – but nice.

Bucky gave a sigh in reply, feigning exhaustion at her antics before holding out a hand. It was clear what he was playing at; forcing calm over the room with open affection, and inside jokes – trying to dig in the fact that he was a friendly rather than the enemy. It worked to some degree. Stark seemed to sink into the sarcasm almost too happily, and Steve looked like a pleased parent. Birdbrain and Red however…

After she'd finally shifted closer, taking the offered hand, he ducked his head. "What's Disney Land?" he whispered.

Samara hummed thoughtfully, wondering how it would be best to explain theme parks. "It's um, it's – oh, actually, you should ask Stark if he can take us there after all this is dealt with," she recommended, patting the hand curled in her shirt. "I'd take us, but I have a feeling that with him we might be able to cut lines."

Thin lips split in humor at the comment, but unsurprisingly, not in denial. So they _could_ cut lines then?

"It's Tony, please," the genius asked gently, bowing his head. "And let me get this straight; you want me to take the Winter Soldier – a renowned assassin – to a theme park? One that's constantly brimming with screaming children and innocent workers dressed in drag?"

Samara blinked, realizing that when it was put like that, the idea didn't sound terribly smart. "Uh…" she started tentatively. "Yolo?"

Tony didn't miss a beat. "Good enough for me. Sounds like a good way to bond as a family," he decided, already pulling out his phone and tapping something onto the screen. His lips pursed as he stared at something they couldn't see, silence finally falling before he grinned in victory. "Alrighty then, that's that done. Next week is okay with you guys, right? Perfect. We'll use my plane, because public airlines are a nightmare."

Both the doctor and the assassin took a step back, blinking hard like they'd been blindsided and using the other as support. "Holy cow, he gives me whiplash, I swear," Samara whispered, resting her forehead against a red star.

As soon as she closed her eyes, she understood the assassin's previous exhaustion. Being in the tower, being away from danger and on the last leg of the race, was like putting your head down on a soft pillow after a hard day. With the realization, the weight of the previous two weeks came crashing down, hitting her suddenly and wiping out any strength she might have had left.

A light touch forced her eyes open again, her body not recognizing the feeling of a soft palm. "In a way, you get used to it," Natasha promised, her smile small but shockingly genuine. "Now, someone said something about a favor? I get that we're all tired, so why don't we talk about it in the kitchen while I get started on dinner?"

Somehow, the woman had managed to turn the command in to a request, and they all piled into the room behind her without thought.

"Do you uh, do you…" Samara awkwardly trailed closer, looking to her assassin for help. The man smiled gently, nodding in encouragement, and she sapped his strength before trying again. "Do you need any help? Making dinner? I'm not a bad cook…"

Natasha cocked a brow in interest. "Ever set your kitchen on fire?"

"Uh well, honestly no but – "

"Then that would make you the best cook in the house," Natasha admitted, rolling her eyes when there was an automatic squawk of outrage. "Shut it, Tony. I don't care how it happened, I only care that it happened. I saw flames and you lost your kitchen privileges. End of story," she drawled, looking up and daring him to argue. He only deflated into one of the bar stools with a pout. "That's a good boy."

Samara cautiously wandered into the kitchen. "So, everybody in this room has managed to set something on fire? Pretty sure that's setting a new record," she murmured nervously, shifting to open the mammoth fridge and shove her head inside. _"Ooh, donuts!"_

Slim fingers snuck past her to grab a grape, peeling away the fruit. "Once being the bare minimum," Natasha shrugged, gesturing to the blond hovering beside her assassin and the man still decked out in full uniform. "Those two have only been here a couple weeks, but they're both banned for life. Steve's managed a terrifying four times, while Sam's sitting on a humble one – but then again, it's the only time we needed to call the fire brigade, so maybe humble isn't the right word."

The longer the woman prattled on for, the looser the assassin's posture was beginning to look. "I'm proud," Bucky rumbled, everyone turning to give him curious looks. If he cared about being the center of attention, he didn't show it, instead giving a shrug. "Steve managed eight times in one month, back in our old apartment."

The mention of the memory made the blond perk up. "I remember that," Steve allowed, voice tinged with awe. "The wooden spoon caught on fire. I left it on the element when I was trying to make you pancakes. You flung it out the window," he snorted, dissolving into giggles like a schoolboy. Interestingly enough, both the assassin and the billionaire giggled with him.

Samara had never seen her companion _giggle._

"Didn't it – didn't it light the garbage on fire?" Bucky grinned, the edges tired but the overall light was genuine. He'd moved to sit up at the counter as well, bracing his forearms against the marble. "We had to get a bucket to put it out."

Rolling her eyes, the doctor refrained from asking for further details, instead letting the boys continue to reminiscence. "Um, miss assassin lady?" she whispered, lightly touching the woman's arm in a bid for attention. "You have some mince in the fridge. Do you have corn chips or kidney beans? I could make nachos, if uh, if you guys eat that sort of thing…"

For some reason, birdbrain snorted at the comment, arms against his chest.

Samara glared at the man, strengthening her courage with a mental playback of the time she'd hit him where it hurt. He was smirking now, but he wouldn't be if she decided on a reenactment. Beside her, the red head was checking the cupboards with a sigh. "I don't think so," Natasha mumbled. "Okay yeah, no, we don't. I'll go grab some from the corner store or something. Do we need anything else?"

"Sour cream," the doctor listed, trying to make her voice loud rather than timid. "Oh, and dog food too please, before I forget."

Conversation dropped into silence, the billionaire slowly quirking a brow her way when the words registered. "Uh, dog food?" Tony repeated, sharing a look with the others. He seemed to be judging her mental state with the piercing glance. "I know we called Bucky your guard dog and all, but uh, really?"

Samara pulled a face, grabbing the last few things she thought she'd need for the early meal. "It's not for Bucky," she declared, pretending to study the label on a plastic bottle of sauce. Tomato sauce had so much salt for it to be healthy. "It's for Sam. I thought since he was being a _little bitch_ I'd feed him appropriately. You guys sure you don't want anything?

Tony covered his mouth to try and hide the snort. "Oh snap," he cackled. "Sam, man, check yourself before you wreck yourself."

Across the counter, Bucky winked her way, clearly approving.

Birdbrain looked confused at the sudden verbal attack, features drawn tight and arms still pressed against his chest; playing at being his last line of defense. It was almost like he thought he didn't deserve it. How quaint. "What the actual hell is wrong with you people?" he demanded flatly, looking between the sniggering superheroes. "Really? I don't have to take this. I'm out."

Natasha, who was busy tucking her arms into an overcoat, only rolled her eyes. "And where are you going to go?" she asked, flicking her hair out of the collar before fishing up her phone and wallet. "You live here, remember?"

"I have a girlfriend."

Samara couldn't help but let out a disbelieving sound, her lips popping open. "Oh, you do _not_ ," she bit out sarcastically, already heating up a hot plate. Almost without noticing, she made sure all the wooden spoons were clear. "I don't have to be an assassin to know you're lying through your teeth."

Sam – no _birdbrain_ – bristled at the comment. "I'm not lying!" he defended, sticking up his nose. "Her name is Jesika."

"You sure? I was expecting something along the lines of _Casper."_

Golden eyes clashed with a murky brown, and held the contact, almost daring the man to do or say something in response. Even if he dared too, Wilson didn't seem to know _what_. His lips twitched – maybe he was holding back laughter, maybe he was holding back curse words, who knew? – and his eyes narrowed and then widened like the lens of a camera. But still, nothing.

Sam's nostrils flared as he breathed out sharply. "I can't eat your stinking dog food," he grumbled, shifting to lean against the counter. "It's all meat, and I've made the sudden and irrational decision to go vegan. Means no animal products – so no more of your bullshit thanks. I like to think it's better for me, more natural."

"You wanna know what else is _more natural_ ," Samara started, pointing a dirtied wooden spoon across the room. "Bears."

There was another body beside her own, fishing for a cup in one of the higher cupboards. "You can't argue with that logic," Tony pointed out, shrugging as he shoved a mug under what looked like –

"I will love you forever if that's a coffee maker," Samara announced. "And if you make me twenty or so cups."

Tony seemed to really smile this time around, the pleased light reaching his eyes rather than simply sitting on his lips. "You are now my favorite," he decided primly, whistling as he tugged down yet another cup. "So, how do you like it? Sweet like you, or bitter like your boyfriend over there? As black as my heart or – Nat, honestly, don't leave, I'll get someone to deliver the corn chips alright? Sit down."

"If it's coffee I'll drink it. Not bothered by the specifics really," the doctor admitted, wincing at the sharp sound of sizzling from the pan. "Um, so I guess we should get to talking about that favor? I've kinda run out of snappy comebacks and sarcastic comments."

A cup was pressed into her palm, and the genius sighed. "Same."

"It's exhausting having so much wit, isn't it?" Samara asked softly, smiling when the man chuckled before looking for familiar blue eyes. "Buck? You wanna share with the class now, or did you wanna wait til after dinner? Or tomorrow? Or never, that could work."

Bucky adopted that look – the one that meant he was rooting through the darker parts of his mind. "Siberia," he muttered, the words quiet but equivalent to a scream in her ears. "It was constantly in the back of my head. I didn't know why – but I knew that something – I knew that something wasn't right. Every now and then I'd get a flash of something, maybe of a layout or of the training. But it was never enough to figure out more than the fact I must have _been_ there."

He was openly fidgeting now, toying with the edges of the red shirt and swallowing around his next words. Gesturing to the food on the stove, she left it under the red head's eye, instead wandering to lean against his side. Absently, he wound a silver arm around her waist, chest moving in a deep breath before…

"I'm not the only winter soldier."

Samara choked on air, features turning a ghastly white as the others only sighed, not seeming to react as violently as she did at the words. How could they not? Did they not hear what he'd said? The doctor pressed a hand to her chest in an effort to calm the racing organ within it. "Oh crap, oh crap that can't be good. That can't _possibly_ be good. You know what, I say we quit this superhero gig and retire to Fiji. Buy a condo by the beach, and spend the rest of our days treading water and drinking from coconuts," she rambled, shaking her head furiously. "You know, the ones with the little umbrellas? I'll need to work on my bikini body though, because pancakes are never good for the waist line and – "

Before her breathless words could turn into breathless lungs, Bucky was soothing her with a gentle voice, the arm around her waist squeezing. "Hey, hey," he cooed, smiling privately when she met his eyes. "You're okay. It's not as bad as it sounds, yeah? And you look fine in a bikini, shut up."

"Not as bad as it sounds?" she echoed dryly, rolling her eyes with a small shiver. "Nice try asshole, but I ain't falling for it. You're enough trouble on your own, I don't even want to think about more soldiers like you. Soldiers who don't – who don't have a conscience o-or sense of compassion."

Birdbrain made a mocking sound. "He doesn't have a sense of compassion either."

"I will fuck you up," Samara growled, sending him a look that promised pain. The man may have been a good foot taller than her, broader too, but no one challenged the heart of her assassin and lived to tell the tale. "Don't test me. You decided too once, and I won remember?"

The doctor didn't catch the pointed look made by the red headed assassin, didn't see the way practically everyone in the room frowned in disappointment at the man's comment. Sam did however, and he shrunk back under the reprimand of three heroes, muttering out an apology all the while. "I'll go get changed or something," he shrugged, clearing his throat before evacuating the room.

"Or something," Bucky allowed, blinking at the retreating wings before pushing back dark bangs. "Sammy, you still with me?"

Samara gave him a tired look. "I just threatened a superhero for you, damn straight I'm still with you," she grumbled, slumping against his side more completely. "I want ice-cream, coffee and a nap. Not necessarily in that order."

The assassin cooed, humming in hopes it would relax the tension thrumming in her muscles. "Come on, don't be dramatic," he teased, hefting her up so she sat comfortably on his lap. It was better than standing with ever weakening legs, and she whispered her thanks for the silent support. "Oh, and ice cream will ruin your waistline. What happened to the bikini dreams?"

"They died long ago."

Bucky quirked his head to the side. "Dramatic," he rehashed, tutting in reprimand. "Start with the nap then, no time like the present. I'll wake you for dinner."

"Like I'll managed to get any sleep," Samara rolled her eyes, settling against his collarbone like it was the softest pillow. The gentle but masculine scent she'd labelled as _Bucky_ seemed to wash up with every breath he took, making her eyes feel heavier whenever his chest expanded. "Your lap is not that comfortable."

* * *

His lap was in fact, that comfortable.

It was her nose that ended up waking her, the delicious smell of cooked meat and spices assaulting her senses. Someone had taken over cooking in her absence it appeared, and she felt a twinge of guilt at offering her help but never giving it. Then again, if it had been her, there was a high likelihood she would've burnt either the food or the kitchen beyond recognition.

Rubbing at her eyes like a child, she settled against the warm chest again, content to wake up slowly. The heart beneath her ear was beating calmly, a slow pace that almost rocked her back into the land of the unconscious.

" – night or day doesn't matter," Bucky was explaining, each word causing rumbling echoes in her pillow. "And it doesn't matter when we go either. They're in cyro, and from what I gleaned the project has been more or less abandoned. I'm pretty sure their existence is virtually unknown, especially now that you've knocked out the biggest players. Without Pierce, there's no one high enough to give the order to wake them up."

A sigh rattled through someone's lungs. "What if they don't care about orders anymore? We've already proven that they're getting desperate," Tony pointed out, words not making a whole world of sense.

 _Sounds bad though…_

Bucky shifted her almost absently, moving the majority of her weight to his other leg before settling again. "Hydra likes to make sure their people know what happens when they act out of turn," he chuckled darkly. "I wouldn't be surprised if they're too scared to wake them without permission. But even then, as I said, Pierce was one of the only people who knew about them. Not many people were let in on the program."

"Why?" Steve's voice was calming too, gentle vowels and deep tones. "You were a big part of most of their successes for over fifty years. You'd think most agents would know about your existence."

Her pillow shifted when the man shrugged. "They knew I existed sure, and they knew I was on their side, but that was about it."

It was nice to see them all getting along, even if it was because of something bigger than both of them. Bucky deserved more people in his life than an aging doctor, one who's biggest talent was changing things people hated about themselves. He needed someone who would understand more of what his sacrifices meant. He needed someone he could hug without worrying he'd crush them without realizing.

"I'll let it simmer a little longer," Natasha's voice was sudden, but not unwelcomed, the clattering of metal echoing the sound. The topic was a pleasant change as well. "Did you want to wake her now? Or wait?"

A hand brushed against her forehead, drifting down her temple and cheeks before settling on the bow of her lips. "Let her sleep a little longer," Bucky murmured, his sigh ruffling through her hair. "She needs it more than she's let on."

Natasha let out a warm chuckle. "She's a perfect match for you, Barnes, if you don't mind me saying. Feisty as all hell, and quick witted too."

"Isn't she just?" Bucky allowed, voice low. "Perfect."

Silence descended again, but it was heavier this time, and if her eyes were open she would've seen the red head struggle for words. But she was content with giving the illusion that she was asleep, even if she was really awake, even if sleep was tugging at the edges of her consciousness with every second. The awkward atmosphere was thick, suffocating, but it was thankfully broken.

Natasha made an aborted sound. "What happened in Chicago, Barnes?" she demanded casually. "I need to know what to put on the report."

Samara could almost taste the glare the assassin was wearing, could feel the way his shoulders tensed up into rigid lines. "There's nothing to report," he bit out carefully. "The man attacked her. I took him down. It was self-defense."

"If it was really that simple," Natasha started cautiously. "Why are you so tense?"

He didn't answer. Bucky stayed quiet, the hand previously curled around her waist tightening as he drew her closer, tucking his nose into her bangs. Every breath he took ghosted along the planes of her cheeks, but again, she was content to pretend sleep.

"She did it, didn't she?" Tony asked, voice almost a whisper, but also as loud as a gunshot. "He came at _you_ , and she took him down."

The grip was painful now, and she couldn't stop the displeased sound from leaving her lips. Another day, another bruise. Bucky traced the skin he'd hurt, mumbling an apology even though he thought she'd was sleeping. "She panicked," he finally whispered, voice wrecked. "It wasn't her fault. The woman hit her, and I heard her yell and blindly came running. I didn't even think about the husband. If she hadn't been there, I… It wasn't her fault."

Something tickled against her hair, another hand settling on the assassin's shoulders. "No one is blaming her, Buck," Steve promised. "Sometimes things have to be done, and it sounds like this was no different. How's she… how's she handling it?"

Bucky sighed. "I thought she'd break down," he admitted, body slumping over as his fight left him. "But she hasn't, not in front of me at least. With everything that's happened, she still hasn't walked away. I don't get it? She knows everything I've done – she read the mile long list and you know what she did? She cracked up laughing because someone had charged me with jaywalking." He let out a snort, drawing nonsense patterns on her hip.

"Someone charged you with jaywalking? What the heck?" Tony squawked. "You'd think they'd care about the whole murder bit."

"You'd think."

Natasha's laugh was more a purr than anything else. "If you really want, I'm sure we could find a way to get Bruce here?" she offered. "He'll probably swear to hell and back that he's not a therapist, but he'll help anyway he can. Maybe if she had someone to talk too…?"

"You're too kind," Bucky allowed. "Really, thank you."

Her mattress, pillow _and_ blanket shot forward when someone clapped his back. "Any friend of the Captain's is a friend of ours," Tony announced joyfully. "Even if they butcher our parents. Speaking of – I get to punch you twice. Steve and I already discussed it and we think it's fair."

Steve was rambling out apologies within seconds. "What? No, we didn't, Bucky I swear we – "

"Punch me all you want," Bucky shrugged, and judging by the stunned silence, no one had expected such a blasé reply. "I honestly don't care. There's nothing I can do to repent for what I've done, but if letting you treat me like a punching bag helps then I'm all game. I understand enough to know that sorry won't cut it."

The silence was more than suffocating now.

Tony broke it with a drawn out groan. "Damn it, now I can't punch you without feeling like a terrible human being. That's not fair. You 're not meant to be the bigger person," he moaned, and a sound similar to a rotten melon bursting hit the air. His next words were muffled, like someone was smothering his face. "You're meant to be an asshole so everyone agrees with me when I knock you on your ass. If I try that stunt now, Steve will give me the _eyebrows of disappointment."_

"Eyebrows of disappointment?" Natasha echoed. "Trademarked that one yet?"

The billionaire's voice was still muffled by something. "It's pending."

Samara managed to stay awake for a few minutes longer, forcing her mind to remain alert, but after listening to more teasing and the deep sounds of her partner chuckling, she knocked out again. Sleep was better than real life sometimes, and she wasn't missing out on anything important.

Bucky would still be there when she woke up.

* * *

 **GUYS I'MA SAY IT NOW IN CASE I DON'T GET THE CHANCE LATER BUT HAPPY HOLIDAYS! MERRY CHRISTMAS! HAVE AN AWESOME WEEK!**

 **I love you all to pieces, just so you know. Shout out to the gorgeous Jesika! Believe it or not, she actually exists in real life – I know, I know, it's hard to believe I have friends but I do. Stop laughing, I'm serious.**

 **And since we're on the topic, guys holy hELL SOMEONE MADE FANART OF SAMARA! I get that fanfiction doesn't like links, so uh, go on youtube and type in her name – Samara Mason – to watch the speed paint of it. I've watched it a couple of times already, and paraded the art around because guys. Someone made fanart. I'm dead. Gone. Six feet under.**

 **Taila xx**


	33. Burning the past

"Well, personally, I think you look like a bloody twat."

If his fingers hadn't been tangled in solid material, he would've flipped up the middle one. "You little liar," he grumbled, testing the width of his shoulders with a slow roll of the muscles. "I look like a badass, and you know it. You're jealous."

The mirror standing proudly before him was perfectly placed, revealing the woman in all her glory, stretched out along the bed like a panther. It also showed the practised eye roll she gave at his words. Bucky chuckled, shifting his arm and watching the light play with the glittering metal – and too think he'd almost punched the genius when shoe polish had been mentioned.

Samara sighed. "Jealous? Not likely," she muttered, poking out her tongue. If she thought the action made a point, she was wrong. "But as your significant other, I have to tell you when you look stupid, or like, when pants make your ass look fat. It _is_ in the job description, read the fine print. Anyway, so I hate to say this..."

"I am warning you now, don't you dare," Bucky breathed, tipping his head back. "Don't you dare finish that thought."

Originally, he'd hidden his face to make sure the woman hadn't seen his smile, to make sure she didn't see the effect her words – _your significant other –_ had on him. But hearing her laughter made him turn, made him show it despite wanting to hide it.

"Your ass looks fat in those pants," Samara rushed out, vaulting from the mattress as soon as the words had left her mouth. He'd barely even registered what she'd said before she was peeking over the bed frame, eyes clashing with the pale cream sheets and fingers curled in the material. "Am I about to die? Because nothing is flashing before my eyes and I feel a little cheated. I paid for the whole package."

Bucky only quirked up an interested brow. "Why are you staring at my ass?" he asked lightly, habitually dropping his eyes to check out the spectacle in the mirror. It wasn't like his butt was anything special, right? Helplessly, he peered up at the woman again, the question on the tip of his tongue before he paused. He could see her chin now, head slowly lifting to reveal more of the face he was growing dangerously attached too. It was weird – he'd never noticed how soft the curve to her bottom lip was, like a perfect paint stroke...

Her lips moved with words. "Because I own that ass and – and okay it is really nice. Do you do pilates?"

Bucky only snorted, stalking across the room until he loomed over her crouching form. "Not pilates, but running for your life does a lot," he allowed, keeping his brow up and curious. "What are you doing down there? Seeing how the other half lives? Digging for gold?"

"No, I'm trying to be on the same level as the booty," Samara corrected, staring down his hand when it offered it out. The indecision lasted a split second before he was allowed to close his fingers around soft skin, pulling her up to his level. "Get a different view, you know? Run some numbers. I'm liking the top, it makes your shoulders look broader, even though it's missing the buckles," she declared, dragging her nails down his chest. "But the pants? The pants are…"

Bucky chimed in, swallowing. "The pants are designed to resist fire, sharpened edges like knives or debris, and keep me thermally regulated. Not entirely safe from bullets yet, but I've been assured that Stark is working on it," he listed, grinning lazily when she made a sound similar to a snort. "Give him twenty-four hours."

Her eyes had yet to stray from the gleaming surface of his left arm, and absently he made the decision to keep up with the polishing routine. "I'll give him fifteen, with two coffee breaks and minimum pay," she decided, but the teasing fell a little flat, sounded a little weak.

 _Why isn't her smile reaching her eyes?_

The assassin took in a slow breath, releasing it on the ends of an approving hum as he lifted a hand to trace her features. It was late, exhaustion already beginning to paint purple streaks under her eyes, but he and the others would be leaving early in the morning – most likely long before she woke up. He didn't know when he'd get the opportunity to study her again.

For all he knew this would be it. His last hour to commit her to memory. Bucky needed something like this anyway, something in case this all went to hell. Something to flash before _his_ eyes if he…

Letting out another hum, he pressed a kiss to her brow with closed eyes. "Come on, we should get some rest," he muttered, hating that he needed to eventually pull away. He managed to hide the desire to stay, breathing in her scent, by pushing her back until her knees hit the mattress. "You need some beauty sleep, yeah? When you get tired, you tend to get cranky."

The movement sent her balance all to hell, and she latched onto his upper arms with a grunt. "Hey," she protested weakly, shooting up a glare as he steadied her trembles. "For one, I don't _need_ any beauty sleep; I'm bloody gorgeous already. Two, I had _some rest_ on your lap four hours ago. And three, I'm not cranky because I'm tired, I'm cranky because yet again, I've been side lined." A sharp nail stabbed him in the chest. "By you."

 _This again?_ Bucky let out a worn sigh. "You are not coming to Siberia."

The doctor's brow slowly climbed up, and the hands on his shoulders slowly climbed down. "Oh? Then you're not getting any sex."

Bucky tried not to choke on his own spit, entire body spasming before coming to a complete and utter standstill. Not so much as a single muscle twitched, his eyes darting between her own golden orbs. "I, uh," he coughed, cocking his head. "I don't get any sex anyway?"

Samara adopted a feigned look of shock, patting his chest. "I know honey, and that's because I'm not coming with you," she cooed, dropping all contact by folding her arms against her chest. Her body wavered slightly, still a little unbalanced by the bed pushing against her legs, but she managed the glare. "It's your own fault, you know, right? The ultimate betrayal…"

Bucky eyed her somewhat uncomfortably, suddenly far too aware his arms were still curled around her waist. "Are you trying to bribe me?" he demanded, swallowing thickly when the heady scent of _her_ clouded his judgement. It wouldn't be a hardship to take said bribe – she hadn't been lying when she said she was gorgeous, so he wouldn't lie and say the thought hadn't crossed his mind – but an idle comment didn't translate into actual desire. His doctor liked to crack jokes, and this was no different. "It won't work, darling, at least not on me. Find a more gullible assassin."

With a tilt to her head, one that made him entirely too nervous, she studied the less than genuine curve to his lips. "Boo, you whore," she grumbled, dropping all her weight forward so he was forced to hold her more completely.

He didn't do more than grunt and correct his grip, pointedly avoiding the swell of her ass. "I said no to sex, how am I the whore?"

Her shrug almost knocked him out.

"Loving your logic," Bucky grumbled, abandoning the weight in his arms. The doctor hit the mattress with a squeak, scrambling to some semblance of dignity and blowing her hair from her eyes with a frustrated breath. "I said sleep. You okay with what you're wearing or did you wanna get changed?"

Samara wiggled furiously, coming up onto her knees. "Hey, you little – "

"I'm an assassin."

" – ray of sunshine, you," she finished, patting his cheek. "I'd love to go to sleep, really I would, but…" The good doctor pretended to be conflicted, teeth gnawing on her lower lip in decision. "But no; I don't wanna sleep in what I'm wearing and also, I don't wanna _sleep full stop."_

Bucky studied her after the words, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. "You're going to bed. End of story," he announced, pushing her shoulders so she lost her balance again. Hitting the bed once more, she made another noise of distaste. "You need to sleep. Your body needs rest every once in a while, you know?" The woman was trying to get her bearings when he snatched the blanket out from under her, forcibly settling her on the mattress. "There we are, all tucked in. Sleep."

Samara huffed, fighting back the duvet. "I do _not_ sleep on command," she hissed.

"You do now," Bucky corrected. "Sleep."

Before he really could tuck her in, dismissing any notion of escape, she darted out under his arm. "Barnes! I will create a world of pain for you," Samara bit out, straightening her top. It was her _lazy day_ shirt, about three sizes too big and covered in faded ink and grease stains, so there really wasn't any chance of saving it. It was cute that she tried though – at both fixing her appearance, and at threatening an assassin. "You'll look like a waffle when I'm done with you."

Running a hand through his hair, he measured the distance between them with a keen eye. "Samara. Get in…" he started, stalking around the mattress. "The damn…" He'd blocked the doorway now, so she had no hope. " _Bed_."

Gold flickered between said bed and his advancing shadow. "No?"

Bucky sighed. "Wrong answer," he drawled, wrinkling his nose. "Darling, we can either do this the easy way or the hard way."

"I've always _really_ liked the hard way," Samara hunkered down slightly, a calculating look painting her features. "And if the easy way means I have to submit, then screw you man. I'm a free spirit, a loose cannon, a rule breaker," she murmured, inching a little to the side with every step. "I don't like being domesticated."

The assassin only rolled his eyes. "Why are you so dramatic?" he demanded, giving up with sneaking and practically diving forward. His arms wrapped around her before she could dart away, trapping her own hands against her sides and forcing her to kick out in annoyance. "Now, now, all I'm making you do is sleep. Even kids don't put up this much of a fuss, honestly."

A heel snapped against his shin, and he winced in time with the woman's surprised shout. "I hate you," Samara growled. "Let. Me. Go."

"Only if you promise to go to sleep."

Her head fell back, nestled in the crook of his neck, and her eyes pinned him down. "I wanna do something first, then bed?" she offered, wiggling once hopefully. "I promise I will go willingly, but there's something we need to do. It was your idea."

Curiously but also suspiciously, he let her go, only to find his hands grabbed and person dragged towards their suitcases. "What was my idea then?"

Samara gave him a short look, falling to her knees and digging happily through the suitcase she'd claimed. "Fire," she allowed briskly, tapping her fingers against her thigh as she searched with the other hand. "Bonfire, to be more specific, but I thought we could make a night of it. You wanted fireworks, so I thought we could ask Tony if he has any on hand, and I'm sure they have some marshmallows…"

Bucky came close to chuckling, to asking what the hell she was going on about, before the sounds died in his throat. For a split second, he panicked. For a split second, his heart pounded so hard in his chest she must've heard it. For a split second, the red book made her hands look like they were stained with blood.

"What do you think?"

Bucky bit down, grinding his teeth together. It didn't look right – his doctor holding the very same book that had commanded his life – but it almost seemed appropriate. He was giving it up for her after all, giving up one form of control for another…

Warmth bloomed along the connection between silver and bronze. "Buck?" The hand moved up, cradling the sharper line of his chin. "We don't have too. Actually – let's just go to bed yeah? I'm pretty pooped, and you're right. The nap didn't help," Samara started, the book deposited back in her case and forgotten by gold. "Your lap was comfortable sure, but it wasn't a billionaire's billion dollar bed. Oh, unintentional tongue twister. Sweet."

"Sammy," he interrupted in a quiet voice, his smile weak but still present. "I'll look for the marshmallows. Do you think you could talk to Stark about the fireworks? Our _friendship_ is still rocky at best."

The woman gave a small grin at the comment. "I personally believe he had the right to punch you down in the lab – for his own sanity – but twice?" she sighed, quirking a brow and falling back onto her heels. "Pushing his luck a little. You should've hit back. Then again, you didn't need too, did you?" Her hair fell into an unbreakable curtain as she cocked her head to the side. "Why punch someone when you can break millions of dollars' worth of technology by _falling over_? Did the second punch really shock you that much, or did you trip on purpose?"

Bucky cleared his throat awkwardly, giving up a shrug. "See? Rocky."

"On purpose, then."

* * *

The longer she was made to sit down, the more it seemed like she needed to move. It was like a built-in trait – see lots of things you're not meant to touch and you touch them – and right now? She was _surrounded_ by things she wasn't meant to touch.

"Are you okay?" Tony asked, quirking up a brow. "You're practically vibrating over there, teen wolf."

Samara made a sound back, not wanting to bother with words and – "Wait, why teen wolf?" she asked dumbly, snapping her head around to focus on the billionaire. He was still surrounded by the holographic screens, and his eyes were glued to them while his hands worked wildly with the components on the table. He wasn't even _looking_. "Aren't you playing around with chemicals right now? Shouldn't you be focusing on them? Like, so they don't blow up."

Tony finally looked away, only so the doctor could see his eyeroll. "Please. I think I know how to handle dangerous chemicals," he snorted, shaking his head and going right back into it. "And teen wolf because of your eyes. Don't tell me you haven't heard Barnes go on one of his spiels about you."

"Ah yes, the golden eyes thing," she murmured. "They're more a brown than anything, I think. People don't have gold irises, Tony, this isn't an anime."

The genius shot her a bored look. "How would you know?" he countered, poking out his tongue when something fizzled on the table. "I mean, we have crime fighting superheroes, well thought out plot lines that almost manage to impress you, and bad guys who sometimes look cooler than we do. Isn't that all animes are, really? Character design and weird jokes?"

Samara leant forward in her allocated seating, trying to see what the man was doing. "Um, I dunno, I've only watched a couple in my day," she shrugged, catching the spark of something igniting. "Are you entirely sure about this being safe?"

"Oh please, have you ever heard of fireworks killing anyone and – "

"Yes."

" – I am an insanely smart, not to mention dickishly handsome man. I am capable of dealing with volatile components if I want too," Tony finished, tongue once again darting out to show his concentration. "Stop being a backseat driver. Backseat fireworks maker? Just stop. This isn't a health and safety check, and if it was, shouldn't you be focusing on the distinct lack of safety gear either of us is wearing?"

Samara was suddenly too aware that if something did blow, her eyes were unprotected. "Well shit."

Tony hummed. "My point exactly. Now you, go do something. I'd say go make me a sandwich, but now is not the time for sexist humour," he drawled, offering up a lazy grin. "And by _not the time_ , I mean there's barely more than twenty floors separating me from a renowned assassin. He's already damaged one of my suits. I don't want him damaging my face because I can't keep my mouth shut."

"Why not? You damaged his face," the woman quipped back.

Tony gaped. "He killed my parents?"

Samara folded her arms, tossing dark locks over her shoulder. "I'd agree with you, but then we'd both be wrong," she snorted, shaking her head. "Hydra killed your parents, remember? Honestly. What was the lie you said about being a _genius_?"

"Hey no, don't be mean to the orphan!"

The doctor opened her mouth, ready with a sarcastic comment, but the laughter bubbled up before she could stop it. "You…" Samara giggled again, lowering her chin so the man wouldn't see her grin. It was already difficult not to crack a smile at what the man said, but now, without the others around and her exhaustion reaching new heights, she couldn't help it. "Oh child, I can't breathe…"

Tony awkwardly whacked the space between her shoulder blades. "Are you okay?" he asked slowly, drawing out the words. "You're turning red, are – are you breathing right now? I need you to breathe."

Samara waved a hand.

"That's code for no, you're not breathing," Tony sighed, free hand coming to rub the bridge of his nose. "Do you want me to make the fire crackers or not? Cause I need both hands to do that, and if you die, Barnes will ensure I don't even have one," he muttered, shaking his head. "Honestly, I'm doing this for him, but he'll still gut me like a pig if I so much as blink in his direction."

Smiling softly, the woman boosted up onto the counter beside the male. "Hey now, listen up," she warned, managing to sound warm despite the threatening tone. "Bucky is a great soldier, and an even greater man. Give him a break. I know I can't… I can't forgive what happened to your parents…"

"Or to the countless others he murdered?" Tony grunted. "You did get the file we left you, right?"

Samara bit back a sharp retort, and settled for an even sharper smile. "Yeah, I got it – and I threw it into the nearest, and biggest fire readily available. Bucky knows about it too, by the by. I don't keep secrets from him," she shrugged, wrinkling her nose. "Except for, you know, my deepest darkest secrets. I'm not gonna go blurting them out or anything. Oh, and he even gave me his blessings to read it. The file. Not my secrets. _His_ secrets."

Tony opened his mouth, created no sound, then shut it again. "You uh, you talk a lot, and you're really stubborn," he mused, narrowing his eyes. "I like you. You can stay here as long as you like. I can even give you your own floor."

"Dude sweet."

The genius beamed back, all childish light and genuine content before he went back to the cracker in his hands. It was coming along – she had no clue was it was meant to look like at any given point – and she hoped he'd hurry along. It wasn't that she didn't trust the others to make her assassin feel welcome, it was that she didn't trust her assassin to play nice if pushed too far. Everyone had a limit.

Samara settled more comfortably, picking up the nearest tool and tossing it up expertly. Tomorrow, the team were going to the base hidden beneath snow, and she was staying hidden beneath blankets. There had been reassurances claiming she wouldn't be alone – that a man named _Agent_ was coming to ask questions about the past few weeks – but she was still unsettled.

Five people would be going.

But would five people be coming back?

It didn't seem like coincidence to her that she'd passed out when they'd started discussing the mission. It seemed like something perfectly planned, but also something she couldn't prove. It seemed like they discussed something someone didn't want her to know about.

But there was trust between them all wasn't there? Samara cleared her throat quietly, hand clumsily missing the wrench as it fell from the sky once again. "Shit, I'm sorry," she winced, slumping back as the tool clattered to the floor. "I wasn't paying attention."

"It's okay," Tony allowed, shifting back from the counter. "I was expecting you to drop it a lot sooner, too be honest. Surgeon or not, I didn't think you'd have such good hand eye coordination," he taunted, winking when she gave him a helpless glare. "Anyway, I'm done here, should we go up? Romeo has probably resorted to pacing now as he waits for you, his true love."

A small box of red and gold painted sticks was thrust into her hands, and awkwardly she took it. "Oh yeah, sorry," she smiled weakly. "Uh, thanks, for the crackers. You didn't need to make 'em. It was more of an _if you happened to have them_ sort of thing."

"Well, I happened to know how to make them," Tony grinned. "That's like ten times better!"

The words were exclaimed to a turned back, the woman already walking away and leaving the chattering billionaire in the dust. Tony didn't take being rejected terribly well, his voice reaching octaves only canines could hear, but he was quick to catch up to her side – his glare almost beautiful in its power. In the face of it however, all she did was grin and wink, putting a skip in her step.

He muttered something unsavoury under his breath, glare dying, but only said; "We're going to the roof," aloud as they hopped in the elevator. The steel doors shut them in, and all she could do was pray that the crackers wouldn't decide _premature_ was the way to go.

"Thank you…" Samara murmured, staring at the ceiling as they travelled up the building. "Not for the crackers. For helping him. Helping us."

Tony blinked over at her curiously, eyes roaming. "This isn't just his problem anymore," he shrugged, hand wiping along the nape of his neck. The action was strangely bashful for the cocky billionaire. "Siberia isn't something he can deal with on his own, and when the trouble gets out – which it will, with our luck – we'll need to deal with it anyway. We're only… nipping it in the bud."

Samara pulled a face. "Trouble?" she echoed, now the curious one. "I'd uh, I'd agree with you but he didn't… um… he didn't tell me anything." The laughter she let out was painfully forced and tight. "Bucky, he brags about trust you know, but he doesn't like to show it."

"Are you kidding me?"

The sharp retort made her head snap up. "What? What did I say?" she asked weakly, habitually checking over her shoulder, almost like she could find someone else to blame. The steel planes of the elevator stared back, and she deflated slightly.

Tony shook his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Barnes trusts you more than I think he trusts his own head," he admitted, staring straight ahead. "Notice how every time we talk to him, maybe use his name, he hesitates? We ask him something, he gives this tiny pause, like he's waiting for permission to answer. If the question needs a simple reply, a _yes_ or _no_ , then he does the weirdest thing – he looks to you. Funny, hm, that he goes to you for help."

The ache settling in her chest wasn't something she wanted to dig any deeper into, and she closed her eyes. "Are you saying he thinks I'm another handler?" she whispered, voice strained. "Are you saying he thinks I'm his – what, that I'm his master?"

"What? No," Tony finally faced her, hands between them in surrender. "When someone asks you something, something you're not sure how to answer, you run it through your own head, don't you?" he questioned, placating smile slipping. "You ask yourself how you should answer. He doesn't do that. He asks _you._ "

"Think that's trust?"

Tony's chuckle was tired. "I know that's trust, and I know everything," he corrected, hands falling back to his pockets. "Listen, when someone thinks of you as their conscience, it means they trust you to make the best decision. If you can trust someone to do that, you know them in and out. You know them intimately. Now, I don't wanna know what you two get up to behind closed doors, but I see what you do out of them. Barnes trusts you to choose his path in life, to choose what door he should walk through…" A sigh rattled through him. "If I didn't think you would bolt, I'd be using a different word."

Different word. Samara squeezed her eyes shut, knowing what blasted word he was talking about. "I care about him, really I do," she insisted. "And I won't run because you say something I don't wanna hear, okay?"

"Well then, I think he cares about you too," Tony allowed. "Maybe more than you think."

Samara laughed loudly and suddenly, tossing her head. "Oh god, did you – the playboy – give me relationship advice?" she demanded, quirking a brow. "I feel like I should be smiling for a camera right now, admitting I got played. But then again, the telly says you're quite the wise man on the topic. Potts, right, your CEO?"

The humour died so quickly, so abruptly, it was almost like a candle flickering out in the wind. "Pepper," Tony mumbled, teeth clenching and the muscle in his jaw ticking. "We uh, we're not together anymore. It turns out all the attraction in the world doesn't help when there's no trust," he chortled mirthlessly. "God, aren't we pathetic? Our love lives are in shambles."

"Hey, my love life is perfectly fine!"

Tony rolled his eyes. "Uh huh sure, you're dating a brain washed assassin but it's fine? So why did you want fire crackers again? You two want a romantic picnic under the stars? Is it date night?"

"Um…" Samara bit her lower lip, the scabbed wound only twinging slightly in pain. "He wants to burn the book that Hydra used to control him."

"He wants to burn the book used to brain wash him,"Tony grinned. "I win."

The elevator let out an obnoxious sound, and she snarled, hiking up the box of crackers. "Fuck you," she growled, flipping her hair over her shoulder and stalking from the steel box. The wind whipped through her thin shirt, the material worn from time, but she continued towards a red blob. "And don't turn that into an innuendo or I'll turn you into hot sauce."

Bucky's smile when he saw her was enough to make her heart pound. "Don't challenge her, Stark, she will do it."

"Hot sauce? That's because I'm smokin' right?" Tony asked, looking between the interested faces gathered on the top of his building. The ground team had gathered there, apparently called out of hiding by the blatant scream that he was going to make fireworks. "Oh, you guys got the bonfire ready and – and what is that wood? Why does it look polished? Did you guys tear my tower apart for this?"

Natasha gave an artless shrug. "Barnes broke the cupboard when he was looking for marshmallows. We didn't want it going to waste," she allowed, the small flick to her brow daring him to argue.

All eyes snapped to a red shirt. Bucky only smiled innocently.

Samara dumped the box. "Okay, it only took the odd hour but we've got some fireworks," she announced, wiping her hands on her sweats. "I can't promise that they actually work – I mean Stark made them, so they're probably as unstable as he is."

"Rude."

Bucky snorted, tipping his head back in frustration. "Alright you two, enough," he commanded, lumbering forward and messing up his locks with silver fingers. In-between the bronzed fingers of his other hand, red stained the skin, the book thin but so much trouble. "Let's just do this. I want to go to bed – and I also want marshmallows."

Across the pile of wood, Steve lifted a bag and grinned like a kid. _"Marshmallows…"_

Tony picked up one of his crackers. _"Fireworks…"_

Rolling her eyes, Samara shifted forward and plucked the book from her lover's grasp, wiggling it in their sight _. "Deadly book that can control one of the world's most powerful assassins if it falls into the wrong hands…"_

Sam pointed a finger. "I think she wins."

Blue eyes looked between all in shock, the assassin seemingly surprised they were all so easily distracted. "Enough," Bucky boomed, both hands now waving around instead of just the one. "Honestly, you're a pack of children. Now, who has a light?"

"You are my light," Samara blurted out, mind already throwing on the breaks.

Bucky slowly turned to stare her down. "Get out."

It was probably bad that she started laughing, probably not a good choice, but the man didn't do any more than roll his eyes. If the assassin was genuinely irritated he didn't show it. Behind the giggles – she was getting over tired, that's all it was – she could hear the words of her previous conversation ringing. Now that she knew about it, she expected to see this _hesitation_ , waited to watch him look to her for help, but he never did. He seemed okay on his own.

"Matches," Natasha declared, a small cardboard box flying across to them. "Light it up, Barnes. I want marshmallows too, and I also want a warm bed. It's freezing out here. I'd rather not lose any more sleep or any extremities."

There it was. Now holding the matchbox, the assassin had turned to her, eyes wide and imploring. "Ready?"

Samara held up the book, studying it, and then turned to give him possibly the brightest smile known to man. "Light it," she nodded, her grip tightening. "I promised you I'd go to bed after this."

As he walked forward, hands playing with the box, she noticed the itching desire to throw the book onto the wood. There was something satisfying about watching paper burn. The crackle of fire reached her ears, forcing her eyes up, and she blinked at the stunning array of red and orange.

"Sammy?" Bucky whispered, moving back to her side and lowering his head.

It was hard to hear much, what with the pyre building into something impressive, but the influx of sound granted privacy. "Wanna do the honours then? Throw it into the fire?" she questioned, holding out the book. "Get rid of your old life, once and for all?"

Bucky took it with a nervous chuckle, staring down at it with childishly wide eyes. "This seems a lot bigger than just burning a book," he admitted, swallowing thickly. "Too much symbolism in this for me. I'm only here for the marshmallows, you know?"

Samara smiled widely, whacking his shoulders. "Just burn the damn thing. Jesus."

Passing the red into silver, he took her hand with his flesh one, squeezing the knuckles gently as he threw out the leather-bound book. It hit the wooden tower, sitting apparently untouched for a few seconds before the edges starting curling up. It was painfully anticlimactic, but the man beside her shuddered with a breath, his eyes slipping closed and head tipping forward. Too her, it was the burning of a notebook, but to him, it was letting go of misdeeds.

Tugging on their joined hands, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Welcome to civilian life," she greeted. "Warning you now, it's boring and sucks massive balls. You know what? No. I don't welcome you. Don't be a civilian, its lame. You should do the superhero gig, and welcome me in so I can have some fun for once."

Blue eyes darkened in emotion. "The superhero gig? Yeah, don't think that's me," Bucky warned slowly. "But you're not the first person to ask me that. Steve wants answers. What are my plans after this? Where am I going to go? What am I doing to do?" he listed, features contorting for a few seconds. "I, uh I told him I was going wherever yo – "

"Bucky! If you want marshmallows, you better hurry," Steve shouted across the flames,

Samara let out a short, startled breath, running a hand down his arm. "Go on, I'm not going anywhere," she promised. "But if you don't hurry, those marshmallows might be. Grab a few for me, yeah?" Petting his arm, she pushed him forward, and with a kiss to the corner of her lips, he was gone.

When blue eyes left her person, the doctor slumped slightly, hand massaging the tense muscles in her neck. As the team talked, her eyes drifted from their smiles to the pyre standing proudly before them. The book was a mess of ash and charred leather, only a dark star visible through the bright flames, but it wouldn't last much longer; not with the way the fire was licking at it.

 _I hope all of you burn._

Samara started to the side, the acidity in her last thought managing to make a lump catch in her throat. As a doctor, she wasn't a violent person, believing in healing rather than hindering – but she wanted Hydra dead, no doubt. The ferocity was almost frightening.

"You okay over here?" Natasha asked softly, wandering to the place the other assassin had abandoned. "You're looking a little lost."

Shocked back into reality, she only smiled. "I'm fine, thanks," she waved a hand to the side, clearing her throat. "I'm just not used to all of this, you know? Superheroes, plans of attack, fighting and – " Samara looked to the woman, only needing one glance to know her next words wouldn't be surprising. "Killing people, it's not really, not in my arsenal, you know? I don't… I'm a _doctor_."

Natasha gave a short chuckle. "A doctor and a murderer against the world?" she voiced, gesturing to the assassin with her chin. "You make an odd pair, I'll give you that, but it's a good one. You're what he needs."

"Sure, I am," Samara cleared her throat.

The red head winced. "Sorry about the whole…" she sighed. "Trying to turn you against him, trying to take you both in. Tony said you didn't read the file, that you burnt it. I'm, I'm glad you did. I don't think he'd be going so well if you'd left."

Samara let out a laugh, the sound similar to a bark and lacking any sense of genuine humour. "Yeah, I burnt it," she admitted, looking over to the fire dancing in blues eyes. The assassin wasn't looking her way, wasn't paying attention to her, and she was glad. He didn't need to hear this. He didn't need to know.

Gold turned to take in the woman. "But I never said I didn't read it."

* * *

 **I wrote the rest of this chapter while watching Civil War, and damn I forgot about the feels in that movie. That's probably why there's a lot of heartfelt moments in this. You know as much as I love the Buckster, I am sick and tiRED OF PEOPLE BEING MEAN TO TONY!**

 **Anyway, I really hope you guys had a good holiday. I did :)**

 **Taila xx**


	34. Ballerina

It can't have been more than an hour. It _can't_ have.

He felt like he'd barely closed his eyes before he was shooting up again, nerves wrecked and heart pounding through the aftershocks of a nightmare he was struggling to remember. He felt like he'd only then rested his head before it had been filled with dark images and screaming voices. He felt like he'd been thrown around like a ragdoll and then hung up to dry.

Bucky pried his hands away from the covers, silver shaking as he pressed the metal against his stomach. He was wide awake, body giving the slightest tremble with every breath, but he needed more sleep. He needed to have some strength come the mission.

Come Siberia…

The thin sheet was sticking to his skin, clinging to the sweat pouring from him, and with a wince he peeled it back. "Fuck," he breathed, kicking it the rest of the way down and slumping back. The pillow cradling his head was strangely cool as well, like the liquid dripping from his temples and upper lip had stained the material. It was with a strangled curse that he ripped it out from under his throbbing skull, flipping it over before resettling.

But even with the comfortable surroundings, with the soft sound of breathing from beside him, he couldn't even find the strength to close his eyes. Maybe he'd been wrong the night before – maybe he would have more hours to spend studying feminine features.

Like it was second nature, his eyes slipped over to the doctor's prone form, flicking first to her chest to make sure she was breathing, and then to her closed lids. Her lashes were moving wildly, fluttering as her pupils apparently danced in her sleep, and he couldn't help but chuckle. It made sense that she'd be dreaming. It always seemed like she never stopped.

" _Sergeant Barnes, are you okay?"_

Startling slightly at the sudden voice, Bucky bit down the urge to correct the voice – he wasn't a sergeant, not anymore – and instead let out a sigh. "I'm fine, Jarvis, don't worry," he allowed, smiling up at the ceiling. "Just a bad dream."

The butler seemed to wait, counting the seconds before he spoke again. _"I am aware of that,"_ Jarvis admitted. _"But your heartrate had settled three minutes and thirteen seconds after waking. It has now spiked up again. Protocol and worry has decided I ask about your wellbeing. Sergeant Barnes, are you okay?"_

Bucky only blinked at the question, mouth opening to speak, then closing because the words he'd chosen weren't right. There wasn't really much he _could_ say back to that, not without dropping either his pride or his well practised hard ass routine. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he settled his features in the crook of an elbow. "I can't sleep," he muttered, the admittance heavy in his throat.

" _Lack of the recommended six to eight hours' sleep does not cause heart palpations. If paired with high doses of caffeine, then yes,"_ Jarvis continued, sounding almost annoyed at the last part. It had Stark written all over it. _"But you have no consumed any."_

Okay, so the robot in the ceiling was helpful, he'd admit that much. Most of the genius's inventions were – including the small chirping mess of metal that had sprayed him with a fire extinguisher; without that bot, the fire on his marshmallow could've easily spread up his arm – but Jarvis always seemed to know a little too much for it to be comfortable.

He was similar to Stark in that aspect.

Bucky ground his teeth together, biting his tongue against the comment he wanted to make. "You're right, I haven't," he managed, narrowing his eyes as he waited for another reply. When nothing came, nothing but a small sound from the woman beside him, he pursed his lips. "So why, pray tell, was my heart rate accelerated?"

Jarvis didn't answer, and again, he wondered if the bot was weighing out his words, if he was choosing whether or not this conversation was worth it. The indecision was a very human thing to do, but he'd learnt to stop being surprised at how far the intelligence came to being a living person. _"Studies have shown…"_ There was another pause before the sentence was rushed out. _"Studies have shown that your heartrate increases when looking at someone you are in love with. It is the work of hormones if the studies are to be believed. It is similar to adrenaline surging during the fight or flight reaction."_

Bucky somehow managed to stay in the bed, even though every muscle in his body was screaming for distance. He didn't do love. He _couldn't_ do love – there was too much risk, there was too much danger. "I'm not running away," he grumbled darkly, both to his body and to the bot.

" _I didn't claim you were, only that the hormone surge is similar. I am also not claiming you are in love with the doctor,"_ Jarvis promised, and with the words, the assassin's chest loosened ever so slightly. _"I do not think you would take well to such news, so I shall not say it."_

Did the robot in the ceiling just insult him? Did the robot in the ceiling just insult the _doctor_? Carefully, Bucky lifted up a brow and cleared his throat. "So, you're saying you think I'd panicked and run screaming – or are you saying that being in love with Sammy is something I shouldn't look forward too and or take well? She's annoying sure, but she's not _that_ annoying."

Being in love with her, and being loved in return would be something to grab and never let go. There wouldn't be anything to _not take well._ There wouldn't be anything he wouldn't want to take and – Bucky felt his eyes slip closed at the rampart thoughts, recognizing the warmth in his chest.

Shit.

Jarvis made a small noise, like a sigh, drawing him back from his mind. _"Love scares most humans. It is one of the most powerful things your kind can do, but it is also the thing you fear most. You must forgive my lack of understanding. Mr Stark has given me the basis of a human's mentality, but even I cannot grip such a thing."_

"I wouldn't run," Bucky rehashed, swallowing down more words. "But yeah, you're forgiven."

As the robot gave a quiet thank you in response, the assassin turned to look across the mattress. His heart was a dull pounding in his chest. He'd never noticed, so use to worry and fear quickening the pace, that maybe it was the mere sight of _her_ that started it. He'd always thought the barely noticeable beat was because he was waiting for the betrayal, that he was regretting bringing her into his little corner of the world. But he wasn't waiting, and he regretted nothing.

Double shit.

Bucky let his lips curve into a soft smile despite the mental curse, suddenly thankful that he'd woken up a little earlier. He had time for a proper farewell now. "Studies have shown, huh?" he whispered, leaning closer and propping up onto his elbow. "Sammy? Sam?"

The woman groaned a little, rolling over and tucking her nose into her pillow. "Whadoyouwant?"

"And good morning to you too, gorgeous," Bucky rolled his eyes, tugging on the knots in her dark hair. "You're looking exceptionally stunning today. Then again, I've noticed that when you're asleep and therefore unable to speak, you're pretty cute."

Gold peeked out from under long lashes. "Pass me a pointy stick and I'll show you cute," she groused, but even with the clearly displeased expression, she wiggled closer and leant against him. He could feel her breathing in, the gust of air sweeping along his chest. "Better yet, an oven. If you're so damn full of something, it might as well be cheese."

"You're making about zero sense to me right now."

Did – did she bite him?

Bucky started back, much to the woman's chagrin, and rubbed the afflicted spot. "You did not just bite me," he murmured, but goddamn it, there it was. A perfect imprint of teeth. "You _did_ just bite me. Is this because I woke you up and you're pissed, or is this your idea of foreplay?"

Samara was carefully watching him. "Alright so you're in a weirdly good mood for ass o'clock in the morning. What did you do? Who did you kill? Was it Stark? Did he leave me a fortune in his will? He better have. I made him a smore last night, he owes me," she snorted, settling back against the bed and yawning into the sheets. "I don't expect much but my time is expensive. It took me like, three minutes to make the damn thing, so I'm thinking three million?"

"You're rambling a lot for ass o'clock in the morning," he countered, tugging her closer so she was using him as a pillow instead of cotton. He knew she wasn't rambling from nerves – that string of words had happened simply because she could and she wanted too. "Three million sounds pretty decent. I may have forgotten to mention my charge. I don't assassin for free you know."

"I don't even get a discount?"

Bucky shook his head. "You don't even get a discount," he sighed dramatically. "Sucks to be you, huh?"

Samara snorted out a laugh, and the sound was as beautiful as the first time he heard it, and where the hell did that come from? "Did you really wake me up to make sure I knew about your bill?" she demanded, yawning into his skin. "Cause ew."

His good mood faded at the edges. "I woke you up so I could say goodbye," he whispered, feeling like he needed to speak a littler quieter, a little softer. If someone heard him saying goodbye, they could make sure it was permanent. "We're leaving soon, and I need to go get ready."

Her brow come together. "I really wanna say _ew_ again."

Bucky chuckled, the sound as quiet as his voice. "I know the feeling. But once this is done, there will be no more early mornings," he declared firmly, nodding once like it cemented the words. "Seriously. I'm not kidding. I know I made a vague comment about joining the _Avengers_ but I won't help if I have to get up before twelve on both weekdays or weekends. Villains will have to wait until I've have breakfast."

"Sounds legit," Samara grinned, giggling into his skin. "Why _are_ you in such a good mood?" she wondered aloud, leaning back to study him a little closer. He wasn't sure what she found, he never was, but her smile seemed brighter suddenly. "You brushed your teeth yet?"

Huh?

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "No… Why…"

The doctor hooked her arms around his neck, struggling to fit one hand between his body and the pillow beneath his head. "Well that is a good question…" The awkward embrace seemed rather perfect, so he sat back and let her wiggle closer, somewhat amused. "And the answer is because if you _had_ then I'll be the only one with morning breath, and that's just unacceptable," she pointed out, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss to his lips.

He hummed into the touch, gently grabbing her hip with his hand. "That's all?" he demanded, quirking a brow when she moved to shift back. "I could die, you know? One kiss is what I get when I'm leaving to buy dinner or go to work. I could die."

"Yeah, you said that."

"And I'm going to repeat it," Bucky continued. "I could die."

The woman stared him down for a few seconds, lips twisted and bitten, before her hands slowly moved to cup his neck and her thumbs danced along the line of his jaw. He waited, expecting her traditional sarcastic comment, expecting a purposefully frustrating kiss on his nose or cheek; one that would leave him vaguely annoyed but also painfully happy.

But instead, she held eye contact, moving forward to press another achingly slow kiss to his lips. This close, he could see the smaller flecks of colour in her eyes, could see the faintest line of freckles across her nose and the odd blemish in her skin. He could see the way gold became a thin band surrounding black, and absently wondered if his own eyes looked the same. Like ice surrounding a black hole.

One of his hands floated down to run along her waist, tracing unrecognizable patterns in the skin, but her eyes still didn't close. They fluttered, like the temptation was there, but all she did was press close more bodily, connecting them from the line of their hips to the curve of their lips.

With the new contact, he realised his first impression of her had been dead on. Samara was slight and fragile, like a glass doll inside a music box. He wanted to hold her more, but what if he broke her? He had control over his metal limb, he knew that, but what if he lost it for a split second? What if he lost himself in her, and didn't bother keeping the strength in check?

With the vivid memory of bruises marring her skin in his mind, Bucky managed to pull back, offering up a small smile. "That's better," he allowed, using every ounce of willpower he had not to go back for more. "I won't completely regret it if I die now."

Samara looked far too knowing, her eyes gleaming, and he remembered with a start that she would've seen it all in his own orbs. She would've watched him panic, would've watched him fight with his own mind, and then struggle to pull back and give a smile as penance. "That was still just a kiss," she chuckled, hand curling around his neck and toying with his hair. "Exactly the same thing as before."

Her chest moved as she breathed in, getting enough air for words, and the pressure was enough to make him clench his teeth. "I can live," he grinned, all teeth, silver hand still trapped beneath his own body.

"Good for you," Samara rolled her eyes. "I can't."

He tried to argue, he really did; he tried to stop her from pressing them together again, but the woman was so goddamn _stubborn_ it was like pushing at a brick wall. He planted both his hands – silver included – broad against the stretch of her stomach, ready to create distance, but at the contact she let out a soft sound and his resistance melted. It slipped through his fingers, and he gave up.

Forcing her onto her back, he used metal to prop himself up and flesh to sneak under the thin material of her shirt. Her skin was cooler than his own, but it wasn't unpleasant, instead like cupping a glass of water on a burning hot day. It wasn't until he had the contact that he realised he desperately needed it.

Samara made a sound of protest when she was moved, but it dissolved into a sigh when she realised he was drawing her closer instead of pushing her away. "Why hello there," she purred, pulling away just enough so the words could be heard. Her lips brushed against his with every word. "Comfortable?"

Bucky nuzzled her neck. "Very…" he whispered, taking a long breath in and humming softly. The body beneath his own wiggled when he dragged his beard across sensitive skin, and he grinned in victory, silently hoping it would leave a mark come morning. He was a possessive bastard like that. "I should really go and get ready. We're leaving soon."

In response to the words, the hands – that had migrated to the small of his back – tightened.

He let out a pleased chuckle, by now down at her collarbone, and looked up to meet hazy golden irises. Had he not managed to make her close her eyes yet? Tongue darting out to taste the hollow of her throat, he made sure to actually leave a mark this time around.

"What happened to leaving…" Samara whispered, fingers lifting to curl in the smaller hairs at the nape of his neck. Between words, she let out the smallest sounds, like muted gasps or breathy moans. "You have like, important… things… lifesaving," she let out a small sigh. "Leaving me with some random dude who name is _Agent._ Who even is that? I mean…"

Bucky bit down hard, bruising the skin between his blunt teeth. "He is someone who is _not_ me," he ground out, crawling up her body until he was posed directly above her, both hands holding him up. "But you're right. I really do need to go."

The doctor wrinkled her nose. "Fate waits for no man," she mused, perking up to leave a chaste kiss on his lips. "Pick this up when you get back?"

"When I get back. Promise."

* * *

 _Since when had houses learnt to talk?_

 _Breaking and entering was once a silent affair, the only sound the clicking of locks and the clocks on the walls, but now there were announcing houses? Not alarm systems that would scream if he didn't get a code in early enough, but instead a voice that would calmly declare he'd managed to best the lock? Personally, he preferred the rushed edge of a tradition alarm. This was bullshit, plain and simple._

 _The soldier growled shortly, darting into the house when the lock gave way under his hand. He wasn't sure if anyone was awake inside – it was early, late, something – but he needed to move quickly in case someone came looking. Human curiosity was a thing to behold after all. Someone was bound to show their face._

 _He was proven right when a chair scraped along linoleum. Someone was close by, mere steps away, hiding in the nearest room._

 _Quietly, he shifted closer and peered through the archway, not managing to catch more than a glimpse before he hid beside it, between two machines packed with clothing. It was dark enough that he knew he wouldn't be seen, and the small blessing was better than he could've hoped for. He'd learnt how to hide in the smallest patch of shadow – such a large amount was like handing him something invisibility on a silver platter._

 _Words shocked him back into reality, the obviously feminine voice doing nothing to his mind. He'd killed younglings before, he could manage a woman. "House, I swear to god, you better not be messing with me."_

 _A slight form slipped through the archway, lithe and fragile as it padded down the hallway. The owner of the house was a tiny slip of a thing, something small that most people would feel the urge to protect and keep safe from harm. The urge never came to him, but he was happy to note that as small as she was, she wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight._

 _He could see the exact moment she realised the door was open, her shoulders hunching upwards. "Alright," she whispered, the sound soft in the silence. "The door opened. By itself. Without any assistance whatsoever by any hands skilled at lock picking." The woman darted forward to slam the door shut, and he took the time to look down at his hands. They were rather skilled at lock picking…_

 _Shaking his head, he used her distraction to slip into what looked like the kitchen, taking the time to make sure she hadn't left any weapons within reach. He could take on the fragile thing if she grabbed a knife, without issue, but he wanted her alive and unharmed. He still needed that doctor._

 _Absently, he noted she was talking in the darkness behind him. "See? We're totally fine. No machete wielding maniac today."_

 _The soldier looked down to his side, taking in the gleaming surface of his blade. What was it called again? It was his favoured one, without a doubt, and had seen more battle than most men, but he couldn't remember the title for it. Something told him machete was familiar though and –_

 _He had to squint when a car drove past, the headlights shining into the room and blinding him. Brilliant. He couldn't have that happening again, not when he was trying for the element of surprise. He needed a dark corner. Blinking hard, he turned and headed back towards the archway, hoping to find shelter in the corner when another car went past and lit up the room once more._

 _He was going to hunt that person down and skin them alive._

 _As he was mentally murdering the driver, someone flitted past him quickly, and he remembered the woman with a terrifying start. "I have a gun," she breathed, back against the wall, and hand down her robe. He could see the delicate line of her wrist poking out, and could judge how it travelled along the material to create the rough shape of a weapon. He gave her props for effort, but most guns, even pistols, were bigger than that._

 _A car passed once more, and she was revealed to him in a flash of gold and dark brown, eyes wide and lips open. The woman was right beside the block of wood playing house to her knives. Shit._

 _As the vehicle left the room in darkness, he started stalking forward, hoping to either move her or discourage her against acting out. He could hear her moving too, hands scraping down the wall like she was clawing at the paint. He didn't have time to question it before the room was flooded with more light, this one not going to pass in a few seconds, and instead remain permanent._

 _With something dangerously close to amusement burning in his chest, he noticed both her hands had come up in defence, revealing the awkward curve she'd tried to adopt. "Mine's bigger," he mumbled, breaking their small stand down by gripping her wrist in one hand._

 _The woman gave a weak cry. "Ah! Let me go!" Her legs came out from under her, and the sudden weight made his shoulder ache. With a grunt, he forced her feet to the ground again, tugging as harshly on the line of her wrist as he dared. With someone as delicate as this, he needed to show some form of care or he'd break her. "P-please let me go? I-I'm sorry, I j-just – you can have whatever you want, just please let me go."_

 _Did she think pretty words would really help in this situation? He'd never been swayed by pleads or bribes, not once, and he wasn't going to start. Tightening his grip on her wrist, he took in the pale pallor and startled eyes, realising idly he was lucky looks had no sway over him either. The woman was delicately stunning, like a glass ballerina, with prominent cheekbones and thick locks._

 _His sister had had one of those music boxes…_

 _Her pleading tugging cut the strange thought short, and he looked at her rather than through her. "The writing on your fence," he spoke again, resisting the urge to cough at the uncomfortable grit in his throat. "Claims you're a doctor."_

 _It wasn't hard to see she'd become more confused than scared now, the bright shine of unshed tears fading, and he bit down a sigh. He wasn't going to speak again, it was discomfort bordering on pain, so she'd have to settle with a show and tell. Throwing her against the counter, making sure she was boxed in, he moved to rip the remnants of his shirt away, tearing the uniform away with muted relief._

" _Oh, you're hurt," the woman breathed, one hand flitting closer before she aborted the action. "Is that w-why you came here?"_

 _Finally, something was going right for him. Hiding the desire to slump over in exhaustion, he bit out; "Deal with it," and forced his shoulders to tense rather than relax. The muscles screamed in protest but he couldn't afford weakness, not now._

 _The soldier felt awkward under her eyes, but he let her look. "I'm a plastic surgeon," the woman revealed, and what did that have to do with anything? Shaking her head, she cowered back like she expected punishment for speaking up. "I could fix your nose or remove a troublesome mole – but I can't deal with that. I'm sorry…"_

 _Was there something wrong with his nose?_

 _Pulling his blade from its holster, he pressed the tip against her stomach, already know where and how to cut before he'd even decided if he would. The woman went on her tiptoes, like she expected it would create distance between the knife and her skin. All he could think was that it made her more of a ballerina. "But. But I s-suppose I could try? If you'd like. My private office is across the house. I don't tend to do my w-work in there though, only consultations…"_

 _If she expected him to know or care about what she was saying, she was solely mistaken. With his flesh hand, the one that ached like fire, he grabbed the material around her shoulder in a tight fist. "Where?" Meeting her eyes with the demand, he was shocked to see something similar to gold staring back. It was a pleasant change to the silver lines of his arm. Her hand shifted, and his attention traded to the direction it pointed in. "Move."_

 _Throwing her forward, he checked the kitchen over again as she stumbled, making sure nothing was missing or stowed away on her person. He followed her almost absently, looking over the house with muted curiosity. It was similar to his old handlers in wealth, but not in colour or design._

 _He felt her eyes and hurried to make eye contact. She hurried to drop it._

 _For a scared woman, she moved quickly, and they were at a thick door before he could do more than note his arm was hurting. "It's just through here," she revealed, pushing open the door and quickly moving through the open path. Her shoulders straightened ever so slightly at the new surroundings_

 _The soldier followed her through, mind making the idle note of where the windows were and if there were any more doors. There was one behind them both, but she wasn't paying it any attention; most likely a closet then, and two large windows that let in the light of the moon. No chance she'd get to them before him._

 _Dropping his body onto the chair situated a little away from the centre of the room, he waited for the woman somewhat patiently and studied the room. It was tasteful, he could recognize that much. The dark woods mixed well with the colours speckled about, and it made him feel strangely warm and cosy. Like he was sitting at home before a fire, with Stev –_

" _Is it just your shoulder then?" The words made him blink over at the woman, and he gave a short nod. The burning in his chest was something she couldn't fix, so he didn't bother to mention it. "Okie dokie then. I'll need to put you under; I should have the supplies here because the wound is rather – "_

 _He couldn't go under. He couldn't fall asleep. No. No. No. No. No. No –_

" _No."_

 _The woman openly paused. "No? You actually want to be awake? Do you know how much this is going to hurt, sir?" At the title, he was the one who paused, flinching back, and she checked her next words more carefully. "It would be best."_

 _It would be weakness, he wanted to say. It would be the perfect opportunity for you to call for help. "I don't want to be unconscious," he growled, lowering his head ever so slightly. It was the most she'd get from him. "I can handle pain."_

 _Her annoyance seemed genuinely distressing. She wasn't pissed he'd ruined her plan, only that he'd feel what happened next. The realisation, plus her mutter, made him frown. "Sure you can," she probed at the wound with gloved hands, humming under her breath. "So, can I ask how this happened?"_

 _Red, white and blue flashed in front of his eyes, words echoing in his ears that he didn't even have the strength to acknowledge. The room spun. "No," he grunted, but he couldn't hold back the; "Why?" that followed. First, she cared about the pain, and now she cared about how it had come to happen. Nobody was meant to care, not about him or his wellbeing. They were only meant to care if he finished his mission or not._

 _Why were people starting to care?_

 _Her chuckle was warm. "It's called making conversation. And it looks very rough, ragged," her lips tugged into a frown. "I was wondering how you managed to do this to yourself. I would say knife fight, seeing as you're toting around a cheese knife on steroids, but a sharpened blade would've left a cleaner wound than this."_

 _Of course, she only wanted to know to sate her own mind. Human curiosity was a powerful thing, hadn't he said? Registering her other words, he was almost pleased she could work out it wasn't a blade. "Debris," he admitted shortly, and he didn't know why he'd opened his mouth, damn. "A broken shard of metal."_

" _How did you dislocate it then? You didn't reset it properly; may I just add."_

 _Curiouser and curiouser. "Then reset it. Properly."_

 _As she set to do just that, chattering idly about pain and other useless things and getting useless and idle replies from him, he mentally retreated. The pain in his arm was nothing compared to the screaming in his head. He could handle dislocation, he could handle metal searing through his skin, but he couldn't handle the voices. It sounded suspiciously like his own too, like he was the one kicking up the fuss behind his eyes._

 _Pain bloomed on his shoulder, and he bit back a sound of discomfort, hand ghosting up to grip where it came from. Absently, he glared at the woman, panting through the agony, and took in her apologetic smile._

 _Why was that happening so much lately? Why were people smiling? People apologizing?_

 _When she slammed it back into place, it hurt again, but this time he was beyond caring. Her voice was somewhat soothing, and it dulled the edges of the agony in his mind, like cool water on a burn. He didn't care much about what she said, only that she spoke so he could listen._

 _Something sharp lined the wound on his shoulder, and he realised she'd moved to suturing, realised they'd had a conversation without his knowledge. He almost shook his head in confusion, like a dog trying to dislodge water, but her concentration was obvious. If he moved, he could screw up her work, and while he didn't care if looked pretty or not, he cared if it worked._

 _He was mourning the loss of her voice when she cleared her throat expectantly. He tried not to show he was pleased as he glared her way. "Your name?" she squeaked, hurrying to look to his shoulder again. "What's your name?"_

 _And why did that matter? The soldier took a slow breath, his arm stinging. "Why?"_

 _Gold rolled up, and he almost chuckled at the exasperated action. It was a strange response, like muscle memory. "Once again, I'm trying to make conversation and I'm kind of putting your skin flaps back together, you know? Creates a special bond. I also may be trying to distract you…"_

 _He refused to show that he was almost touched at the concern. He canted his head to the side, and studied the genuine light to her features. "Tell me yours," he decided, again barely managing to stop a cough from tearing at his throat._

" _Samara," she chirped, smile so bright it almost lit up the darkness in his mind. "Samara Mason, M.D" He didn't care much for the letters at the end, but he nodded and repeated the name mutely, thinking it suited her strangely well. "_ _And? Your name is?"_

 _He looked her way again, searching his mind for an appropriate answer. Hydra had given him many fake identities, it would be all too easy to give one of those, or to throw two names together and hope it stuck. But she was watching him, smile still in place, and he couldn't help but search a little deeper. He had an honest answer somewhere in him, he knew it._

" _James Barnes."_

 _The doctor beamed, somehow looking even happier. "It's a pleasure to meet you, James."_

* * *

He promised.

He promised and he didn't know if he could keep it. He said he'd come home, that he'd come back so they could finish what they started, but he didn't know if he'd ever be setting foot in the tower again. He promised, and there was a chance – _a high one_ , his mind added bitterly – that he'd leave her waiting.

Bucky settled into the seat, connecting the belt with a solid click before rolling out his shoulders. The thought sat like acid in his head and lead in his stomach, reminding him that he was going into battle yet again, and _yet again_ , he didn't know if it would be the last time he ever did. There were only so many times you could win a fight – and while he had his losses, the blond male beside him thankfully one, he didn't have enough to level out the playing field.

He was waiting on a loss…

And Samara would be waiting on him.

Swallowing down the swell of emotion, he took a measured breath in, mind rolling back to his first life like the credits in a film. When he'd first shipped out, that very first time in the second war, he'd seen crying woman hugging men who looked unaffected. He'd seen the men comfort their wives, daughters, partners, with a hand on their shoulder and a smile on their lips.

And then he'd watched them break down. He'd watched them cry themselves to sleep, and be almost hilariously careful on the battlefield. He'd seen them pray, holding a battered bible that belonged to a child, or seen them say goodnight to a black and white photo.

That morning, only hours before, he'd said goodbye with a smile – and now it was his turn to break down.

"Hey," Steve was a rock beside him, a support he didn't know he needed. "When we get back, remind me to show you a couple of movies. If there's one thing this century did right, it's learning how to tell a damn good story," he admitted, grin easy and perfectly calm and god _,_ he'd said _when_ without question. "Also, the internet, but so far I've had too many bad experiences with that to label it as good."

A smooth chuckle sounded next, and like clockwork, everyone seemed to wake up and listen to the conversation. "Stevie here," Tony started, winking once at the blond and invoking a vivid red blush. "Had a little virus in his computer. Best week of my life."

Steve was a tomato, but one filled to the brim with righteous fury. "Worst week of mine, and – and it would've only been an hour if you'd fixed it instead of laughing," he grumbled, and by habit, both his arms came up to fold against his chest. "Every time I tried to click on something, I ended up in a chatroom with the foxy forties who lived in the area."

"Forties? Isn't that a little young for you, cradle snatcher?"

Bucky felt the smile grow unbidden, but he was thankful for it anyway. "You two are ridiculous," he noted dryly, looking between the smiling brown eyes and the embarrassed red hue painting the others cheeks. "So, uh, how long have you two been – " His hand waved between them, and he said the first word that came to mind, some memory buried in his head claiming it was appropriate. " – fonduing?"

When Steve choked on thin air, and Tony almost passed out he realized that _no_ , it wasn't appropriate. Hurriedly, he pounded on the blond's back and sent up a quick prayer that the man wouldn't die _before_ they actually got to Siberia.

"We're – " Oh good, Tony was still conscious. "We're not together!"

Slowly, Bucky looked between them both, brow coming together. "Ha ha, so funny. I mean it, seriously," he muttered, sending a pointed look to his best friend. "I know that it's allowed now. I'm not gonna have a freak out. How long?"

Steve opened his mouth – and it was too argue, he knew it – when someone else cut in. "You're okay with two guys?" Stark asked, any and all humor gone from his features. He looked like a youth at a seminar, pen and paper in hand, eager to listen. "You'd be okay with it? Like if, for example 'cause it'll never happen; if I was with, let's say Steve, cause he's right there and a guy. A nice guy, awesome guy, any one – man or woman – would be insanely lucky to have him. Anyway, let's say we _were_ together, you would be perfectly fine with that?"

 _Another nervous rambler?_

Bucky canted his head to the side and quirked up a brow. "I'd be perfectly fine with that. Never did agree with it anyway. If it's love, it's love, don't see why gender should have anything to do with it."

Beside him, his best friend deflated. "I always thought that too," Steve admitted.

"See?" Bucky looked the infamous man of iron dead in the eye. "Perfectly fine with it."

Tony leant back in his seat, mouthing the words on repeat before he gave a simple nod. It was clear the topic was one they weren't ready to breach, so he strayed away, instead finding a morbid interest in the armor attached to twin wings. It was all too easy to poke holes in the dark-skinned man's pride, bringing up things like; _"Did you fix your armor? Since my girlfriend managed to kick you in the balls last time, I thought you would,"_ and other gems like _; "Hey Sam, you still being a little bitch? I should have some dog treats on me."_

Sam wasn't amused, but the assassin didn't plan on spending any more than five minutes in the man's company after they got back. So, no harm, no foul. The man wasn't petty enough to bring up rivalry while on the field anyway, so there was zero risk to his person bringing this up now.

"Hey, pretty boy, at least my girl won't end up going home in a doggy bag," Sam answered, both hands held up like he was surrendering. "I'm smart enough to keep Jesika out of all this bullshit. Speaking of, I might give her a call…" he finished, fishing out his phone and tugging one of his gloves away from his hand. "Ask if she can make dinner tonight, cause I sure as hell ain't eating with you lot again."

Bucky blinked. "What do you mean?" he asked lowly, and with the words it seemed like everyone tensed up at once. "Samara's back at the tower. I'm not dragging her into this. She's strong yeah, but I'm not risking her going up against a team of super soldiers to prove it."

Sam lifted one brow, and through his goggles his eyes lit up. "Really? Back at the tower. Cute, Barnes."

When he sat up, ready to tear across the small hanger and pick the man up by the remnants of his pride, a broad arm stopped him. Heaving against the only security, Bucky narrowed his eyes, and carefully spoke again. "Samara is back at the tower," he bit out, forcing himself to relax back against his seat. Beside him, Steve slowly lowered his arm and sent a knowing look across to his not-boyfriend. "Everyone here _knows_ she needed to stay behind."

"Then who is helping Natasha fly this thing? Certainly _looks_ like your girl."

Bucky turned to meet blue eyes. "Let me up," he demanded quietly. "Now, Steve."

"That might not be a smart idea, Buck," the blond corrected, his smile awkward but pacifying. "I think maybe you need to stay where you are. Planes taken off anyway, we shouldn't be running around in case we hit turbulence, yeah?"

He turned to stare down at the floor, nostrils flaring. "Jarvis?" he asked carefully, trying his hardest not to shoot up and send everyone into a panic. They trusted him sure, without a doubt, but no one trusted the people who had unbalanced him in the first place. Hydra was only trusted by idiots, or monsters. "Can you please tell me where Samara is?"

There was a beat of silence. _"Doctor Mason is currently residing in the co-pilot seat of Quinjet; zero-zero-eight-tango-six."_

Bucky closed his eyes. "Which Quinjet are we in right now?"

Jarvis definitely paused this time, no doubt waiting for someone to stop him from answering. When nothing came, his voice reappeared, openly hesitant. _"You are currently in the hanger bay of Quinjet; zero-zero-eight-tango-six,"_ he allowed slowly. _"Please remain in your seat, Sergeant Barnes."_

His eyes snapped open. "Who let her onboard?" he demanded, voice nothing more than an idle drone. He was capable of remaining in his seat, of keeping his cool, of keeping this a casual conversation. He was calm. "Who let Samara come along on a mission I'm not even sure _I'll_ come back from?"

"I did." Everyone looked to the red head when she showed up, forcing herself into the conversation. "Jarvis take care of the jet for a few minutes, would you? I think we all need to have a little talk," Natasha smiled at no one, and the intelligence chimed his agreement. "Brilliant, thank you. Now, Mason is on board because I told her to come on board. I told her to come on board because I think she might be useful. Also, she asked me really nicely."

Bucky felt the mechanics in his arm whirl, like it was responding to his desire to use it. "How, pray tell, would she be goddamn useful?"

Natasha looked over her shoulder for a few seconds, chest heaving before she smiled disarmingly. "Because she is the only one here who actually read your file cover to cover. I never did – it wasn't my business. Steve and Tony never managed to finish it, but she did. Also, the small thing about you not being sure we're going to survive this. I figured having a trained doctor couldn't hurt."

"No, she burnt the file," Bucky asked, and like a candle going out, his anger drained. She didn't read it, she'd burnt it, right in front of him. If she'd read it, she wouldn't be here. Hell, if he had had the chance to read it, he probably wouldn't be here either.

He would've eaten a bullet and saved the world another problem.

The red head hummed. "She tell you that? Because she told me she read it, and I believe her," she shrugged. "Interesting how she's still here huh?"

Bucky blinked, not really sure how else he was meant to respond. His doctor had read the file, had read everything there was to know about him, and she was still standing beside him? He couldn't find it in himself to be angry. Couldn't find the strength to be furious with these people for letting her come because she'd wanted too. She'd wanted to be beside him the whole way.

He choked on something he wasn't willing to identify. "Steve," he whispered, meeting blue eyes almost desperately. "Let me up?" The blond nodded dumbly, unbuckling his seatbelt without hesitation and slumping back. Bucky somehow managed to find his footing in the awkward atmosphere, stumbling towards the front of the plane and towards his better half.

Samara was nervous, he could see it within seconds, her legs tapping against the ground. "Oh Nat? Everything okay? You kinda just left without warning, I was about to follow you out…" she turned as she spoke, the words dying in her throat. "Buck."

"I told you I'd come back," he whispered, clinging to the backs of the pilot's chairs. "You didn't need to come too."

The doctor was expecting anger, and got unshed tears instead, her own eyes welling up. "I didn't believe you," she admitted quietly. "Figured if you were out there being a hero, I'd join in. I was there at the start anyway, might as well be there at the end – whenever the hell that actually happens – and before you ask, no. I'm not leaving. I'm not turning the plane around and going home. I'm happy where I am, thanks."

It wasn't quite a ramble, but it was more said than there needed to be. Bucky closed that last foot on rocky ground, years of training and natural grace the only reason he didn't fall when the plane tilted to the side. "Come on, let's sit with the others," he murmured, holding out a hand.

It was without thought, without hesitance, that she took it.

Pulling her to her feet, he looked down into golden pools, thinking through one last thing. It was only a string of words. He could say it, because after all, he wasn't running away. "Thank you, Sammy," he whispered, curling both his arms around her and holding her tightly. He didn't worry about his arm, didn't worry about crushing her because he couldn't, and he wouldn't. "Um, I wanted to say, I… uh, I…" Okay so three words were harder to say than he thought. "I just really…"

"Love you too, Buck," she whispered into his collar, and if that wasn't the best thing he'd heard, he didn't know what was. "Weirdly enough, I really do. It was love at first _being held at knife point,_ I think. After that, it was all downhill. Couldn't stop it if I tried."

He grinned, hiding it in her hair. "I didn't bother trying."

* * *

 **Wow, kay, so this happened. I'm not mad, not even displeased, I love this chapter. But damn it, was so hard to write. Not because of emotions –** _ **ew**_ **– or anything, but because I had a kitten on my lap for ninety percent of it. Ever tried to type with one hand? It's hard.**

 **And no, she wouldn't leave me alone. I had to give her five hours of my time, the blood of someone with a pure heart and my soul before she would even consider it.**

 **Taila xx**


	35. Battlefield

There was too much white.

It was everywhere – painted across the ground like a carpet, covering the foliage smattered around, completing the cameo for the underground bunker – and she detested every flake. It was an endless expanse, and now that they had landed it hurried to cover them too; floating down the glass and settling on the nose of the plane. If they came out of that facility alive, she didn't doubt the vehicle would be buried deep.

It was why she hated snow. It was a harsh foe, usually coming in waves and storms, and it didn't let up when you pleaded with it. You either got somewhere safe, or you were smothered and slowly killed, limbs going numb and mind fading at the edges.

Samara would rather go down _fighting_.

A hand smoothed down her spine, starting at the nape of her neck and settling in the small of her back. "We're getting ready to move out," Bucky whispered, sitting his chin on her shoulder. "Stark is making some adjustments to his suit, or something, said one of the hand gun things weren't working right." He shrugged and the movement rocked her forward; the palm spreading along her stomach the only reason she didn't fall. "But once he's done…"

"Once he's done, you're all gone," Samara finished, closing her eyes and just _feeling_ him. There was something about the harshness to his hands she adored, the way the skin was work roughened, but then contradicted by silver so smooth it felt like glass. "Are you all going in?"

His fingers curled in her shirt. "Yeah, yeah, the whole team," he muttered, and a sigh flustered her bangs. "Romanov keeps saying you're coming in, but I keep saying you're _not_. I can understand why we need someone like you, a doctor, but we don't need you in there. If it comes down to you being the one who gets hurt, then whose gonna help you?"

Samara lowered a hand, resting it over his own and taking a deep breath in, settling her mind. "I'd feel better," she admitted, turning her head ever so slightly, meeting blue eyes. "I'd feel better if I could see you. I won't get in the way. Please?"

Bucky stared her down, the angle awkward, but still managing to make her squirm. "If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to hide, you hide," he commanded, straightening up to his full height. It made her tilt her head back, eyes following him. "If I tell you to lock the door behind you, you _will_ lock the door. This isn't a house call like before, we're not the ones in charge, and we don't have the upper hand. If things go south, I don't know how well we'll handle it."

"They're the _Avengers,"_ she chuckled, turning completely in his arms. "They handle things incredibly well. Good track record and everything." Resting her chin on the centre of his chest and snaking her arms around his waist, she peered up at him suspiciously. "You gave in a little too easily…"

The assassin only sighed again. "I'd…" he narrowed his eyes, staring out the window. "I'd feel better if I could see you too."

Samara hummed and turned her face away, resting her chin against the strange material covering his chest. It wasn't soft, and it almost felt like metal, but it shifted and whispered when she put her weight on it, letting her sink into the man it protected. "You're a big softie, you know that?" she murmured, dragging her cheek against his shirt again. It had to be made from some malleable form of metal. "You growl at people, but only so you can protect others, just like – oh, you're just like a mother lion or something."

"I'd argue, but I know what a lion can do," Bucky snorted, cocking up a brow. "But what I don't know, is what _you're_ doing. I thought you didn't like the new costume? Something about it making me look stupid? I only say this because you seem rather fond of it now," he pointed out.

Smoothing a yawn into the material – what time had they woke up again? – the doctor used it to hide her eyes. "Feels weird is all," she allowed shortly, enjoying that small moment of peace before looking up again. "It's not gentle, and it has the same feel and okay, the same _smell_ as metal but… but it's adapting? I press here, it gives me a little leeway, but it doesn't give in completely. It's like it accommodates?"

"It was too try and minimise the blunt force of a bullet."

Peeking around a broad shoulder, and muscled arm, she smiled at the other man. "You're too smart for your own good," Samara decided, winking at the billionaire playfully. "Okay, so it's designed to take the impact, but not the damage? Like someone trust falling into a net from a few hundred feet? It lets you push it down, but then springs you back up."

Tony gave a shrug, and covered in metal, it looked a little strange. "I would say it's more of a trampoline, but sure, that sounds about right," he smiled back, nodding once before the humour faded ever so slightly. "Ready to go when you two are. I'd like to be home as soon as possible; I recorded _Toddlers and Tiaras._ "

Bucky watched the genius turn around and leave the front of the plane with a frown. "He's a weird one. I didn't understand any of that."

"The material," Samara rolled her eyes, pulling back completely to rub his shirt between her fingers. "It's designed so, if I shoot you, the bullet will hit but it won't break through. It's like dropping a weight onto a blanket – you see the blanket dip, see it stretch to accommodate the new weight, and then it springs back up, good as new. It makes perfect sense," she whispered, scratching now with a chipped nail. "He's weird, but he's a genius."

Bucky hummed, scrunching up his features. "That's neat and all, but I actually meant I don't understand why he recorded something about toddlers and tiaras? He doesn't have a toddler, does he? Wait, _does he?_ Oh god, I hope he doesn't have a kid. The world where that man is a father is a world I'm not emotionally ready for," he shuddered, feigning a look of horror and hiding the smile when she started giggling. "I'm serious here, Sammy, stop laughing. He has a toddler and he's making it wear a tiara? That's worse than the jeans you forced on me."

Samara continued to chuckle over the words, dragging him back towards the main part of the plane. "Skinny jeans are damn indecent when you wear them," she declared, sending him an over done wink. "Tight in all the right places."

" _Wrong places,"_ he corrected without pause. "I could barely sit down, let alone drop kick someone."

The main hanger was lighter than she remembered, and before she could retort, her eyes drifted towards the open ramp. _White, white and more white._ Samara swallowed, hands tightening in their grip. "Uh," she cleared her throat, trying for another smile. "Uh, that's why we don't fight in them, gorgeous. You wear them, they're called clothing after all."

Bucky pried her fingers away from the material of his shirt. "I fight in anything," he murmured, looking once to the open ramp and then to the wide golden eyes. It took him a few seconds, but even when the light of recognition hit him, it wasn't complete. He knew what was bothering her, but he didn't know why.

"Wait," Tony popped up out of nowhere. "Anything? Even the nude?"

Samara turned to give the man a bored look. "You're a special type of fucked up, aren't you?" she questioned, her brow quirking up. The action lasted until the genius mimicked her, his own climbing up, and she broke; cracking a large smile. "Bucky, I like him. Can we keep him? Please? I'll clean up after him, and I'll feed him, promise! He's so cute! Look at those big eyes."

Tony snorted. "I'm not cute, I'm masculine," he muttered, but one hand floated up, running along the skin under his eyes. "Manly. Big and hairy. I know compared to the other guys, I'm not exactly large, but compared to Natty, I'm hairy, so there. I win."

"Are we gonna leave or what?"

Samara peered over at the new voice, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Oh yay, look who's still here…" she drawled, reaching out to rap her knuckles against metal wings. They clunked awkwardly under her hand, and she grinned at the irritated look she received. If she didn't smile, she'd cry.

Falcon grunted. "Why is she coming? A soft breeze would knock her ass over."

"Well, _she_ knocked _your_ ass over," Samara growled without heat, tipping up her chin. "Does that make you weak, or make me strangely strong? Seeing as my arms are like wet noodles, I'm going with the you being weak option."

As she spoke, her arm was grabbed by silver and she was led from the plane, the team shaking their heads at her antics. Samara would've argued, really, if she'd remembered there was a world outside of screwing with the infamous Falcon – but as it was, she was hip deep in snow before she even realised she'd been moved. There were priorities in life, and making sarcastic quips was high on her list. Snow could wait.

Bucky tugged her back from the others, a certain tech savvy genius yelling over the howling of the wind. "Stark's getting us inside," he informed her, thumb rubbing circles on her skin. If he noticed her staring at the ground, body still, he didn't say anything about it. "We don't have the codes. Burnt it in that blasted book."

"My bad," Samara whispered. "Fire always makes me excited. I would've thrown you in too, if my noodle arms could pick you up."

Bucky made a noise in response, looking towards the facility when the door opened with a frighteningly loud crack. There was the faintest line of tension along his shoulders, hacking them up and drawing down the corners of his lips. It was barely noticeable, and she could see the others look pass it with fleeting glances, but both her and the captain managed to catch something, their care for him overtaking whatever uncertainty they felt towards the other.

Steve sent her a small, concerned look.

Absently, she linked her hand with silver digits. _"Hello darkness, my old friend,"_ she murmured, canting her head with narrowed eyes. The door was a wide gaping maw now, waiting for them, and a shudder ran down her spine like ice. "Do we _have_ to go in there? Can't we just bomb it from orbit?"

"You don't have too," Bucky shrugged uselessly, but the action was so practised, so perfected, she knew it was fake. He was trying, she'd give him points for that, but she'd watched him shift from a weapon to a man – she knew his defences because she'd watch him make them. "You can always stay out here, maybe make a couple of snow angels? Actually, start a snowman army, and when I get back we'll use it to take over the world."

Samara opened her mouth to argue but – "That's actually a genius plan."

Bucky used their connected hands to lead her forward, through the black and her stomach dropped when she started walking on metal rather than snow. "I have my moments," he whispered, and the words bounced back from hallowed walls. "Quiet now, doll."

The doctor nodded – she wouldn't panic, she _wouldn't_. Okay, so maybe she couldn't see, maybe she could only hear dripping water and the clanking steps of metal, but she wouldn't panic. There was still the idle light from the arc reactor, and it glowed a few feet ahead of her, outlining the suit and the people stalking forward behind it. If anything, she still had that; still had blue to cut through the black.

Lifting a hand, she rested it on the shoulder protecting her, resisting the urge to bury her face. It had been _her_ idea to come, and the least she could do was keep her chin up and her mouth shut. If she was a problem, they'd only send her back to the plane and learn not to take her in the future – and in all honestly, she'd rather be terrified about her loosing own skin, then sitting at home fretting over his. This was better.

Samara took in a careful breath. _This was better._

"The systems appear to be inactive," Tony spoke up from the front of the pack, calm and collected. "There's no energy signatures, no heat, nothing. I'm starting to think you might've been right about this place being left along, Barnes. There's no sign of life, or signs of recent life either. If we're lucky they're still counting sheep in a handy dandy, easy to blow up place."

The doctor opened her mouth to ask _who_ was sleeping, but the words of her partner came flooding back. Bucky wasn't the only winter soldier which meant – she tugged on his arm impatiently, like a child. "How many?"

Bucky spared her look, his hair whispering along his jaw the only sign he'd moved. "Five."

That was fucking brilliant. Five more people. Samara bit her lip against making a comment out loud, content to ramble in her mind and not alert anyone to their location. If there were five more soldiers that they knew of, what about the ones they didn't? Bucky had admitted he was still recovering memories, so what if this was the first base of many that held teams of enhanced men with anger issues? What if there were dozens like it…

"Wait, I'm picking up something…" Tony rumbled, and the light lifted for a few seconds, the arc reactor paired by twin hands. "Low energy source, and – shit, we've got life. Five blips. That's how many were in that death squad of yours, right Barnes?

"Death squad?" Samara squeaked.

Bucky stopped to ran a hand through her hair, calming her as he answered the man. "Five, yeah, that's right," he allowed. "And Stark? They weren't my squad. I trained them to keep up with an enhanced, but that was it. They're elite, moulded into the perfect soldier from a young age. I was a test subject."

Stark faltered. "Pardon me, then. Didn't mean to offend you."

Samara almost felt a little dizzy, the low light and thin air going straight to her head. "Did he just apologize? Out loud? Without being held at gun point?" she murmured softly, blinking through the confusion in her mind. It was like a low haze, but every swipe of silver through her hair cleared it a little more. "Also, out of sheer curiosity, what do you mean by _death squad?_ They're not awake, right? I don't like squads – or death."

The low chuckle sounded before warmth spread along her temple. "Hush," Bucky instructed, pecking her head once more before pulling back. "I'm sorry, she's like a parrot," he apologized to the others, chuckling louder when a hand smacked between his shoulder blades.

"Buck, you don't seem so worried about all of this," Steve – no _Captain America_ pointed out. "You're cracking jokes."

The doctor could feel the shrug he gave, but could also feel the tension thrumming through his muscles. He was wound up and tight, waiting to be released. "We'll be fine, punk," Bucky snorted. "Everything's okay."

* * *

Everything was not okay.

Bucky knew the containment protocols. If anyone tampered with their cyro cells; they woke up. If anyone tried to reboot the power, or rewire it to deprive the cells of energy; they woke up. If anything penetrated the glass protecting them; they woke up. If anyone tried anything _but_ waking them up; they woke up. If they woke up, the small team of five – plus one – wouldn't stand a chance.

They'd have a few minutes maybe, a few minutes where the soldiers would be disorientated, their bodies not responding but it wouldn't last. A few minutes wasn't enough time to deal the needed blows to seriously weaken them. Maybe with the suit and shield it would be, but that was two weapons against a small army.

Falcon and Widow were useful, but not in this. They'd be chewed up and spat out before the ten-minute mark.

And him? These soldiers could only complete their training by besting him in hand to hand combat. Yes, he had a gun this time around, loosely held in his free hand, but they knew how to disarm him. Every single one of them had beat him into the floor once before, and they could do it again.

Samara made a small sound somewhere behind him, torn between a whimper and a gasp, and he listened to the conversation again. " – through here. I can get the doors open. Just be ready," Tony was instructing, shifting forward and tearing at metal within seconds. "That means all guns and shields – and wings? – on me, guys. The life signs are weak, so they're probably asleep, but just in case I want my ass protected."

Bucky tightened his hand on the rifle. "Sammy?" he started, still petting her hair languidly. It was when she blinked up at him that he noticed it was too dark, too dark to see his favourite colour one last time. "I need you to go back behind that wall, behind the last corner we took. Don't look out until we give the all clear."

For once, the woman didn't talk back – she only nodded, shook silver away from her bangs, and disappeared further into the shadows with stumbling steps.

"That's my girl," he whispered, turning and hiking up the weapon. The scope gave him a terrifyingly close up look to the back of the metal suit, and he watched in the semi darkness as gears moved and shifted under silent command.

With another ringing sound, the door opened, revealing a wide and open room – this one thankfully brightened by emergency lights – that hummed quietly around them. He recognized the low noise, and his gut tightened, hands begging not for a gun, but for a warm body to hold close. He'd blocked out the memories before, but _seeing_ your nightmares was something completely different.

Samara couldn't protect him from this with a smile, not like she did from his own mind.

Bucky cleared his throat, gun habitually following his eyes as he scoped out the room. "They're here," he pointed out lowly, blinking at the cryogenic storage cells lining the walls. Six of them in total, but only five were in use. Silence fell as the team took in the heart of the facility, as they took in the cells and the machine centred in the middle of it, every single one showing their disgust in their body language. He, on the other hand, purposefully avoided the machine and instead checked the corners of the room before shouting; "It's clear," through the door.

His doctor came trotting through the darkness like an obedient dog, her eyes bright but haunted. "We're still alive!" she cheered, slowing once she reached his side, and offering him a breathless and fake as hell smile. "I count this as a win. Brilliant. So, can we go home now? I think I left something in the oven."

"Not yet," Tony answered for him, hanging about a few control panels. "We need to shut this down."

Automatically, he called; "Don't," across the room, lowering his rifle. "I really wouldn't do that if I was you, Stark."

Of course, being a trained assassin as his partner liked to exclaim, he picked up on the way everyone tensed, hands floating down towards their own weapon of choice. Natasha's hand had already unbuckled her thigh holster when a small voice sounded in his ear. "Bucky, what you mean? That was some level five villain bullshit, you know?" Samara whispered, watching him with large, imploring eyes. "I thought we were the good guys?"

There was no _you_ , no backing away – just _we_ , and staying by his side. The relief in his veins was so thick he could almost taste it.

Bucky made sure the barrel of his gun was pointing at the ground, other hand coming up to cup her neck as he lowered his chin. "If we touch the power source, they wake up," he told her, voice loud enough for the others to catch the words as well. He heard the safety lock of someone's gun click back into place. "If we try _anything_ , they wake up. The protocols built into this place are solid. There's nothing to do _but_ wake them up."

Tony snorted. "I bet I can get through," he grinned, helmet falling away to let his head free. "Give me ten minutes. I can shut this place down – their life support as well – without tripping any alarms."

"Sure you can," Samara allowed slowly, nodding as she cocked up a brow. That was a bad sign. "But it's eight minutes, with minimum pay and no coffee breaks." Bad sign, definitely a bad sign. He was smothering laughter into her dark locks when he caught the smooth lilt of her voice yet again. "Also, I bet ten bucks you can't and in eight minutes we're going to be fighting off a mini army of enhanced soldiers."

Bucky pulled back, features twisting. "Don't jinx us, bloody hell. Someone knock on wood."

A little to their side, Steve knocked on his shield with a wide smile, before the sight flickered out of existence. "Wait," he murmured, looking down at the painted circle and narrowing his eyes. "You said wood, right?"

The skin under his hand twitched as the woman turned her head. "I'm tempted to make a sexual innuendo right now," Samara mused thoughtfully, looking to him for approval. "But blondie over there might try setting me straight. I've already been to one bloody _sex in the_ _workplace and you_ conference this year, I will not sit through another one. I'm sick of the whole red light, orange light crap. Stop trying to make it a thing, workers union, god."

"Red light, orange light?" Bucky echoed.

Across the room, and over the sounds of vigorous typing, Stark explained. "If someone says or does something that makes you uncomfortable, like touches you a little too low on the back, or makes a sex joke – you say orange light. Like a warning. If they're behaving okay – green light. If they've shoved their hands down your pants and you aren't feeling it – you say red light to warn them to stop."

Bucky pursed his lips. "Alright," he agreed, turning to look at the woman beside him. "Red light."

"What? What did I do?"

"Breathed."

Tony shouted to get their attention, both his hands flying up as he backed away from the console. "Hah! I did it. All programmes are shutting down. We've got about fifteen minutes until this places goes dark. Oh, and Jarvis?"

The intelligence sounded both through their ear pieces, and through the metal suit. _"Four minutes and twenty-three seconds, sir."_

Tony turned to face them with a smug grin, hands pressing against his sides like he'd shoved his hands in his pockets. "Four minutes and twenty-three seconds, my my my, would you look at that? Anyway, enough about that, how about we discuss a payment plan for the ten bucks you owe me?" he started, winking at the woman beside him. "I take credit, cheque and – and red lights are flashing."

Samara groaned. "Red light again? I'm not _doing_ anything."

"No," Stark spun around, tapping wildly on the keyboard. "Look up princess, red lights. Something's been tripped." In unison, all their heads tipped back and stared at the warning lights, watching the colour dance as panic started setting in. "It says emergency protocols are active."

 _They're waking up._

Bucky grabbed the woman's arm and spun her to face him. "We've got about three minutes. Go back to the jet, and get inside. Lock the doors. There is a panel on the side wall, and you should be able to lock the thing down. Jarvis is integrated into the system. He'll help you." he commanded, squinting hard when the red lights commandeered the usual ones. The room was bathed in crimson. "Okay go, you need to go now."

"Too late…" Natasha was there, twin guns in hand and features almost frightened. "I've got her. Deal with them. They'll go to the bigger threat first anyway, and if they see her running, they'll make _sure_ she doesn't get far."

He was already shaking his head when he caught the hissing sound; air being released and pressure letting go. It was a sound he could vaguely remember from somewhere, and his chest tightened. "Sammy," he muttered, unhooking the small pistol from his hip. "I know you hate guns, but…"

Samara winced when he pressed the metal into her hands, features white and eyes nothing more than a dull splash of colour. It was like those married doctors all over again, her mind fading back and shock taking over, but just like then she managed to stay with him a little longer. "O-okay…" she whispered, nodding. "Yeah, okay. I got it. You just – " Her hand waved awkwardly, " – you just do the do. I'll be right here."

Bucky sent Natasha a long look, pouring everything he could into it before he turned sharply on his heel. They were waking up now; he could see shaking heads and hear their groans over the loud explicit words Stark was letting out. They'd get their bearings soon enough.

"Stark!" he shouted, lifting up the scope and firing off a single shot. The soldier he aimed for dodged like he had all the time in the world. _Their disorientation should be lasting longer than that._ Bucky fired again, this time keeping a finger on the trigger and moving with the dancing man. "What happened to shutting it down?"

"I'm trying but – " Stark cursed when a closed fist glanced off the console and shattered the screen. "Fuck!"

There were five of them, against their own little small group, and he felt something bitter settle at the back of his throat. They'd need more than that to win. Somewhere beside him, he could hear his best friend grunting and the odd metallic sound of his shield sounding, but he couldn't risk the time to turn and look. The one he'd been firing at was coming around for another round.

Bucky lifted the gun, aimed and – "Shit," he breathed, feeling the sudden emptiness where metal had just been. He'd barely turned to face the newcomer when a blow to his cheek had his ears ringing. "You motherfuc – "

It was when the punch hit his nose, that he felt the blood dripping down his chin, finding its way through the short hair there. The irritation at not being the one to draw first blood didn't last long, because soon it found a new target. Someone had shouted _"Language,"_ across the room, and he knew who'd done it.

Springing back to his feet, and kicking away the two hands that reached out for him, Bucky snarled at his teammate. "Are you fucking serious right now?" he yelled, ducking beneath a wide punch and bursting up to his full height once more. Now faced with the soldiers back, he kicked the dead centre of it and grinned when he heard something crack. "I'll fucking swear all I fucking want too. Fuck."

The shield ghosted through the air above him. "Really?" Steve demanded. "You're an asshole, Barnes," he growled back, and the grin faded almost instantly with the next words. "Widow, Falcon needs cover!"

No. No. No. Widow needs to watch his doctor.

Bucky opened his mouth to say as much, when a fist connecting with his neck left him choking.

* * *

They'd win, right? They – they had to win. If these soldiers got out, if they found the wreckage their company had been, who knew what they'd do. The chance they would lay down arms, and find a new life was too low for them to be allowed to live. They'd sooner destroy the world out of spite, so _they_ had to be destroyed first.

Samara whimpered when something exploded – Tony firing only for a console to fire back with sparks and flames. It was turning to hell already, and they were less than ten minutes in. There were the perfect number of enemies thankfully, an even five against five, so no one was left without someone to punch and no one was given the option to gang up on another. Everyone who could fight, was fighting.

But then there she was; hiding behind a containment unit and praying under her breath for someone to help them.

Her eyes drifted over to her assassin, watching the way he swung out with movements precise enough it almost looked like dancing. Bucky was deadly. There was grace in the way he shifted from foot to foot, swaying his weight and never staying in one place long enough to take a hit. If she'd had more time, she would've admired it. If she'd had more skill, she would've painted it. If she'd only –

" _Wilson!"_

Automatically covering her head, she missed whatever had caused the shout, but looking up she caught the end of it. Birdbrain was on the ground, groaning and struggling to get back to his feet as a broad man stalked up behind him and his wing pack sparked.

A shield cut through the air, but it missed the male by a solid foot. "Damn it," Steve cursed, still fighting a slender female with wild eyes. "Damn it, Wilson, get up! Somebo – _ugh_ , somebody help him! I can't…" he shouted when a foot struck his knee, collapsing for a second and catching his breath.

Samara tore her eyes away when a fist connected with his cheek, looking back to what had first caught her attention.

Wilson was still on the ground, but the man had reached him now; flipping him onto his back and smiling down like they were old friends. His arm came up behind him, fingers closed in a fist and – and that hit would do it, wouldn't it? That hit would shatter the glass googles, and the bones creating his features. It was take the man away and then there was no more birdbrain, no more stupid jokes just…

Her eyes closed, a cry bubbling in her chest. Wilson had said he was going to ring his girlfriend – Jesika, maybe – and get her to make dinner plans for when he got home. Plans he wouldn't… plans he'd _never_ …

The gun was heavy but she'd felt the weight before, sitting between her fingers and in the palm of her hand like dread personified. It had terrified her then, and the fear was still thick in her throat now, but she could use it. Like before, like Chicago, she needed to use it or pay the price for cowardice.

Samara swallowed, lifted the gun and shot once, body vaulting back with the recoil and ears ringing with the sound. "Hey!" she screamed, trying to aim before shooting again. Both bullets had missed their mark – his fucking head – by a mile, but the first had buried into his upper arm like a parasite and the man hissed as blood flowed. "Over here, frosty!"

The man straightened up.

"Now stand still," she begged, voice wavering slightly as he started moving forward. Not bothering to aim, she fired, heart dropping when the man ducked and rolled; easily avoiding what would've been a shot to the chest. "Stop, stop, stop…."

Shooting blindly, begging something would hit, she felt her back hit glass – the containment unit she'd been hiding behind now coming back to bite her on the ass. It was cold against her shoulders, but she barely had time to register it, her body dropping down to avoid a swift punch. Samara scrambled along the flooring, finger caught around a trigger and legs searching for traction.

The distance she created wasn't enough to save her, not forever, but the man wasn't following. Holding the gun out in front of her again, she fired, positive that this time it would hit, that this time he wouldn't duck and – and no, no, no…

"No more bullets," she whispered, bringing it to her face and screaming down at it. "Fuck!"

A few feet away, the man smiled, juggling a piece of debris in his hands. _That would be why he didn't come after me straight away._ The metal rod looked to be the same height as her, thin like a pipe but still solid and easily swung from side to side as he advanced. It was either going through her, or it was going to be used to bludgeon her to death. At least she had her options.

Gold drifted past his body, landing on another, this one moving quickly through the notions of a fight. "Bucky…" she whimpered, hands reaching out behind her to grope along the wall. Maybe there was a door she could slip through, or an axe meant for emergencies. "Buc – Bucky!"

The pole swung, and it was luck that allowed her to dodge it. Samara could hear the air whipping through the space above her head as a voice yelled back. "Sammy? Where are – " Through the circle of her arms, she saw silver glint as Bucky turned to face her from across the room. "Sammy, no!"

The air whistled as the soldier swung his weapon again, and pain took over.

* * *

 **#YOLO**

 **Taila xx**


	36. Wake up

Bucky understood, _more_ than understood, that he was going to hell. The things he'd done, the people he'd murdered, the lack of regret he'd felt with each death – it all came together to create a perfect one way ticket to the lowest level imaginable by man. He'd accepted that a long time ago, and when the time came, he'd embrace it with open arms. It's what he deserved.

Samara though? Samara didn't deserve that.

If anything, Samara deserved the pearly gates, the singing angels, the blaring trumpets – she deserved every ridiculous thing he'd heard growing up in a church and then some. Good people didn't _burn_.

Fuck, he should've known not to take her into the facility with them. He _knew_ about the protocols, heard them chanted in the back of his head like some twisted prayer, but he thought he'd – he'd thought that even if she _was_ safe outside, someone would still be there to end it. The team didn't know if anyone was hanging around, so what if he'd left her only for someone else to come along? What if he'd left her, died in this stupid place, and then the soldiers had gone to the surface and she'd been on her own against an army?

Bucky didn't want her dead but – but he was selfish enough, that if she _did_ die, she'd do it with him.

Steve was yelling something reasonable, shouting for them to focus on the battle and not the fallen, but it hit his ears as idiotic. They still had five people to take down, did they? Bucky mocked the man in his head, growling loudly as he lifted a leg and threw his weight behind his next kick. The man he'd been fighting was vaulted across the room, body crashing into the glass planes of a containment unit and falling still.

Pausing for less than a second, only to make sure the bastard didn't find the strength to stand up, he turned sharply on his heel. "One down, four to go," he called, grinning with the words, all teeth and bad intentions. The prick with the metal pole in his hands, and the woman at his feet seemed to falter when the assassin gestured to him with his chin. "I'll get that one."

The training was painful, he remembered that much, but that motherfucker didn't know _pain._

"Samara, darling, wake up please," Bucky drawled, clenching his fists and striding closer. If she didn't answer him soon, someone was going to die. "Sammy, _wake up_." The pole swung his way now, and he caught it in between silver fingers, crushing it without a single thought. "You better pray asshole, that she wakes up without so much as a fucking hair out of place."

The soldier only grunted in irritation, dropping the now useless tool and swinging out with his fists next. His first few punches went too wide, and Bucky dodged them easily enough, only needing to take a step or raise an arm to stop the blows. He was almost disappointed. He'd trained these guys until they were _perfect_ , but they couldn't even land a single fucking hit? Goddamn disappointments.

Bucky caught the next fist, wrenching an arm to the side and listening to the satisfying crack. "Remember me?" he taunted, raising a brow when dead eyes landed on his face. There was no reply. He let out a sigh, pulling the arm further and hearing more than mere bone break.

Broken bone and skin could heal though, couldn't it? Bucky narrowed his eyes. He'd have to do more than just _crush_ then, he'd need to –

The muted cough was both a sound from on high, and his worst distraction.

"Samara?" he realized, turning his head to watch the smaller body curl over in another hacking cough. "Samara, are you – " The first punch to break through hit his left side, sending his shoulder back and his breath from his lungs. It only took a few seconds for his own body to be coughing as much as the one at his feet, but he managed to stay upright, ducking another hook.

The soldier was relying on his left hand, the other hanging somewhat awkwardly at his side as he tried to gain some ground. It was a weakness, and Bucky wasn't sure why the man was _still_ fighting. He should've pulled back, should've hung behind and let the others deal with the group. It was the smartest tactical move…

Using a silver forearm as his shield, Bucky stormed forward a few paces, forcing the man back against the wall and into the corner. He went like an animal; hissing and spitting as it was caged in but not smart enough to find a way out.

"You're a dog," Bucky scowled, tilting his head back when the man scrambled to claw at his eyes. "Trained and collared. You're _disgusting_."

Even as he held the man there, metal fingers pressing against his good shoulder, he could see his reflection staring back. He'd been no better less than a year ago. If it hadn't been for the doctor, he would've…

Samara let out another weak cough, the sound echoed by a pained groan.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "If someone had helped you," he muttered, watching the panic tear at whatever common sense the soldier had left. That wasn't him, not anymore. "If you'd had someone like her, maybe we could've helped you. I'm sorry."

The soldiers good hand ghosted along the length of his chin, the sensation pure agony as nails split the skin. Bucky started back with the pain, twisting his lips at the pathetic mess slumped against the wall, and feeling something wet – _blood_ , his mind supplied – dribbling down his neck. Resisting the urge to wipe it away, he shifted the metal hand from the man's shoulder to instead cover his mouth and lower face. It only took one smooth movement, one clean shift of muscle, and he'd snapped the man's neck.

Bucky swallowed as the body hit the ground. "Sammy," he remembered suddenly, almost falling in his haste to face her body. "Samara, shit, _Sammy_."

His hands hovered uselessly for a few seconds, shaking in the air above her head before he carefully cupped her cheeks. Gold fluttered into being, tired and pained but still focused. "Oh, hey you," she whispered, coughing with the words and spitting out red. "God. I did _not_ plan for this offensive."

The sarcasm did little to make him feel any better. "Where does it hurt?" he demanded, brushing dark bangs back. The thin trail of blood leaking from her lips made his gut churn uneasily, but he refused to let it show, staying resolute with a smile. If she knew _he_ was scared… "Samara, baby, come on tell me where it hurts. Tell me and I can help you. It'll be okay."

Samara gave a small chuckle, wincing when her chest rocked. "Everywhere, Bucky _fuck_ , he – um, he…" she whimpered, eyes squeezing shut and his stomach dropped with her lids. "Ribs. He b-broke my ribs."

Letting go of her features, he shifted down her body, peeling away the plain cotton of her shirt. Unlike the rest of them, she was clad in civilian clothing, and the soft material would've done nothing to protect her from the blow. _Damn, why had he let her come?_ Bucky smoothed a hand over her side, babbling out an apology when she muffled a scream. "I'm sorry, sorry, so sorry," he whispered, taking in the already purplish stretch of skin. "What do I do?"

The sound of fighting was still behind him, grunts and the sound of skin and metal colliding loud, but it seemed like a lifetime away. It wasn't that he'd be caught unaware if someone came up behind him, but more that he didn't care for once about the fight. There was a battle and he wasn't involved.

It was a first.

Samara coughed again, every movement violent and provoking a pained expression. "This is gonna get old fast," she grumbled, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "B-broken ribs, they're painful but not…" Another coughing round, and another scream hidden by the material of her shirt. "… _Dangerous,_ fuck, okay, just… just tell me that its water on my face, tell me I'm drooling and it's unattractive."

Not bothering to reply, Bucky carefully swiped a silver finger through the _water_ ; bringing it up to her eyes so she could see the sheen of crimson. The slight widening of her eyes was all the answer he needed. "This is bad, isn't it?"

"Coughing up blood, my chest and left shoulder hurt…" Samara squeezed her eyes shut. "Pneumothorax."

The word wasn't one he recognized, and not knowing made his nerves fry all the more. "I don't…" he shook his head. "Sammy, I don't know what that means. Small words for me remember? I'm not as smart as you, darling."

Samara only rolled her eyes at the compliment, lips tugging up before the smile was torn away by another vicious cough. "Shit, shit, shit, nope, I don't wanna play anymore. I'm calling it. Time of death is – I don't even have a watch on me," she rambled, lips stumbling over some words and teeth stained red. "Damn. Okay, fine, pneumothorax is when your lung collapses. It's uh, it's something I might be needing a doctor to help with."

"Darling," Bucky quirked up a brow, feeling something similar to wasps stinging around his chest. "You're the only doctor we got."

Golden eyes blinked. "Oh, oh shit right, I'm a doctor," she realized, brow coming together. "Um, there's a little… there's a little black creeping up on me here. Dizziness caused by… caused by um…"

Bucky hovered again, something burning at the corner of his eyes. "We bought a medical bag, what do you need?" he asked slowly, looking over his shoulder. The other man, the one with wings and a big mouth was back on his feet, but he wasn't fighting. He'd do. "Wilson? Wilson, how fast can you get back to the damn plane? We need the med-pack."

The man looked past him, goggled eyes landing on the woman gasping behind him before his head dropped in a firm nod. "Give me five minutes," he decided, shoulders straightening up. The wing pack was broken, that much was obvious by the missing metal, and he dropped it from his back – shaking out his right leg before breaking out into a quick lope.

"Birdboy is limping…" Samara whispered, and her eyes were starting to blur a little, knowing where he was but not entirely focusing. "Think he's okay? I don't know what that guy did to him before he threw him down."

Bucky chuckled. "He's fine, gorgeous," he promised. "You saved his ass, he should be grateful."

Samara smiled too, eyes closing and chest moving in a shallow breath. "He'll be writing poems and sonnets in my name soon," she murmured, one hand fluttering up to make her point. "Just you wait and see…"

The corners of her lips were turning purple, and he traced the color. "You feeling okay?"

"Dizzy, tired, sore…" Samara listed, cracking one eye open. "I can't breathe right. Feel like I need to sigh but… hurts too much. I need um, I need something to…" she took a slow breath in, wincing with the tugging weight but managing to only give a small cough. "Needle. Insert it into chest cavity. It will relieve the pressure on my lung, and let it expand again… But I don't know where…. I don't exactly have an imagery facility nearby."

Bucky gave the strongest smile he could manage. "Will you be okay until we can get you to the hospital? You're looking at a few hours, darling," he informed her carefully, sighing as he shifted her hair back from her eyes again.

Fingertips pressed against the cuts on his chin, tracing the lines with a worried reverence. He'd almost forgot about those. "I'll be okay once the pain medication gets here," she chuckled, automatically grunting when it pulled uncomfortably. "I got away lucky, didn't I? If he'd aimed for my head, or my leg... Broken femurs are a bitch, and I guess a caved in cranium would suck even more."

"Yeah, it would, but he didn't get your head, and he didn't get your leg," Bucky told them both, using silver as a cool pack and lightly touching it to the purple splotches on her side. Her chest hitched as she sucked in a breath, but she didn't argue the action. "You're gonna be okay, right?"

Samara slowly nodded, concentration lining her features. "Just gotta…" she whispered, chest moving. "Find the right breathing pattern."

Bucky let her work in silence for a few seconds, calming his racing heart by watching her chest expand and then deflate, watching her lips open a little wider to let in the air before her nostrils flared to breathe out. It was methodical, repetitive, and the cycle helped his own mind clear a little. "I thought you were…" he swallowed, managing a weak chuckle. "You didn't answer me when I called for you. That's bad manners."

Her head lolled to face him better, eyes clear and like the crystal still hanging from her neck. "Really? I got bludgeoned and _you're_ pissed?" she questioned, perfecting the simple raised brow. "I've got broken ribs here, and you're annoyed because I didn't come at your beck and call?"

He shrugged uselessly. "I'm not pissed at you, darling," he drawled. "I'm pissed at the asshole who bludgeoned you. Clearly, he doesn't understand that whole _this human is mine, don't touch_ thing, you know? I might need to just write my name on your forehead."

"Do it, and you'll wake up one morning with a tattoo of my face on your ass, I swear to god."

Bucky opened his mouth to both laugh and snark something back, but a solid body landed beside him, panting for oxygen. "Got the med-pack," Wilson announced, brandishing it with a wild wave. "Think I might've aggravated the broken leg, but you know how it is."

Samara was muttering something about said broken leg, her brow pinched, but he stopped her before she could even try to sit up. "No, you stay down – _both of you_ ," Bucky warned, looking them both in the eye before pushing to his feet. "The others need my help. Still a war to be won, and apparently, I'm a decent human being now so I better go. You," he growled, almost poking the darker skinned man in the eye. "Watch over her."

Wilson held up both his arms. "If she tried to so much as move, I'll sit on her," he swore.

"That's not gonna help anyone, birdbrain."

The man hurried to shake his head. "It'll help _me_ ," Wilson grinned, the edge a little tired, but it seemed genuine enough. "More accurately, it'll help my pride. Remember? That thing you stole from me a couple days ago?"

Samara made a small noise. "A couple days ago? You mean _last night?"_

Bucky sighed and checked over his shoulder again, walking backwards. The others needed him, he knew that, but it didn't feel right to walk away. He shook the emotion away, and turned around pointedly, leaving the doctor with his back and her squabbling companion.

* * *

Breathing had never been something she _didn't_ want to do. It was built into the brain – breathe, keep your heart beating, survive – but now she was wishing the desire wasn't so strong. There was a nagging at the back of her mind, begging for a deeper breath because the room was darkening at the corners, because her head felt like it was floating. But if she followed the orders, it was agony.

Samara would stick to shallow breathing, thank you.

The man beside her let out a snort, hands digging around in the green pack. "I didn't _need_ your help," he protested again, shrugging at her unimpressed look. "Yeah sure, it might've looked bad, but I had it under control."

"Under control?" she echoed, shaking her head with a small laugh. Who the hell did he think he was fooling? "So, that must be why you were on your back, and he was about three seconds away from giving you a free facial reconstruction, right? I mean, most times I'm in control, I'm on my back too."

Wilson pulled a face. "Didn't need to know about your sex life," he grumbled, gesturing to the fight behind him with his chin. "Or his, for that matter."

Samara snorted and followed the gesture, wincing as she watched the fight with heavy eyes. It would be over soon enough – three of the soldiers were down for the count, and the _Avengers_ were kicking the asses of the last two. It was almost a little sad to watch, really. They were fighting back so hard, putting all their weight behind their swings only for a red and gold blur to catch the hit, or for silver to take it like it was nothing.

The panic was making them desperate…

"How's the leg?" she asked distractedly, watching a red gauntlet fire something blue and dangerous. "You said you broke it? Is that how he took you down? I didn't see what happened, only what…" Her smile was pained. "Only what was going to happen."

The man let out a small sigh, looking down to his leg and hesitantly rubbing it through the armor. "Hard to fly around in an enclosed space like this, but since I'm an idiot, I tried," he admitted, shoulders slumped a little. "Thought I could make some distance, didn't want the bastard too close to me. But he grabbed my leg, and redirected me. I hit the wall hard."

Samara winced in time with the story, almost forgetting about her own injuries as she cooed in sympathy. "That would've hurt," she allowed, wrinkling her nose at the abandoned pack on the ground. "Stark will fix it for you, I bet, he'll probably upgrade it or – hey, that little shit owes me ten bucks!"

Falcon gave an obedient chuckle, shaking his head. "That's what you'd be thinking about," he murmured, lifting a syringe for her appraisal. It was dropped when she murmured a quick _no_ , before he began looking for another. "Not about how, oh I don't know, how you have a collapsed lung? Or about the bruise the size of your ego on your side? Nope. The ten bucks. Your priorities are in order."

"Well, excuse you, I am – "

A shouted cry made them both start to the side, eyes wide and shooting to the fight. Steve was on his knees, shield and arm twisted awkwardly behind his back as the female yelled out panicked orders in a language no one seemed to recognize. No one but the trained assassins. Bucky and Natasha shared a quick look, a thousand words said in a split second before they both erupted into movement.

Samara tried to follow it, but her mind was tired enough as it is. All she saw was that they were there and then… then they just _weren't_.

Natasha was darting to help with the last male, legs kicking up and surrounding his head, confusing him enough that she could bring her elbow down on his crown. Bucky however had disappeared to her eyes, nothing more than a black blur before he settled back into the picture with a silver bicep gleaming in the light. The female soldier shrieked and choked, habitually letting the blond go to grab at the arm around her neck.

"Captain?" Bucky's voice was distant, but the deeper tones carried along the empty room easily enough. There was expectation on his features, like he was awaiting an answer or – Brown locks shifted when the man suddenly nodded, bracing his legs.

The smooth planes of his arm twitched, like a muscle tightening.

Birdbrain thrust a random syringe at her, trying to block her vision with the clear medical grade plastic. "Is this the one? I hope so, I'm running outta options," he breathed hurriedly, his grin forced when she managed to look his way. "Also, running low on adrenaline, pain's kicking up a notch. Help me out?"

Samara took in a shallow, and practiced breath, movement kicking in the corner of her eye. The woman was fighting death. "Um, no that's not it, look just…" she sighed, wincing when her ribs stung sharply. It would take a while to get used to being unable to breathe. "Just pass them here already, and I'll find it. Honestly. It's like trying to work with a monkey."

"I'm not helping you sit up," Wilson warned, pushing the bag towards her and moving so he conveniently sat between her eyes and the fight. "I've already been warned against that, and I like all my limbs where they are."

The doctor rolled her eyes. "Uh huh, I bet it's not even broken…" she muttered. "Here, inject it straight into your leg. Might make you feel a little loopy, but it should do the trick. It doesn't hurt much now, but just wait until the excitement dies down. You'll be wanting me to get rid of it." As the man unwrapped the prepared syringe, she refused to wince, knowing her words applied to her own body as well. It hurt now, without a doubt, but it was only a taste of the pain to come. "Don't be a pussy, go on, it's like stabbing yourself."

"I'm not exactly well versed in stabbing myself!"

Samara tuttered. "Well then, you're not exactly much fun either then," she droned, watching the man play around with the needle. "If you don't stab yourself soon, I swear to god, I will. Hurry your ass up."

Wilson perked up at the words weirdly enough. "Hey, I'm used to other people stabbing me," he admitted, almost throwing the syringe her way. "There. Go nuts."

"I am not going to stab you and – " Samara emphasized the words by stabbing his thigh, " – okay I might've lied."

The man was groaning, doubled over and clutching the injured leg like she'd only just broke it. "Son of a _bitch_ , I hate you," he moaned, shaking his head and straightening up. He was breathing through his nose, chest almost heaving. "What did I do to deserve friends like you? I'm a good man, I help people. If I'm not saving the world, I'm saving someone from their own head."

Samara threw the used needle to the side, not caring much where it landed. "Eh, you didn't do anything to deserve me because we're not friends," she announced dryly, curiously following the arcing syringe with her eyes. It hit the ground dangerously close to a wide, dead stare. Her breath hitched, aching through her chest and she started coughing again, crawling along the ground for more distance. The eyes almost seemed to follow her, and she choked on the blood dribbling from her lips. "Fuck, I'm never going to get used to that…" she wheezed.

Wilson tracked her stare, paling slightly. "Trust me…" he murmured, tucking her closer to his side. "You never do."

The doctor was tempted to ask – to question the man on how much he'd seen – but a shadow fell over them both. "I thought I said no moving," Bucky scolded, crouching next to her. "Why are you never good at listening?"

"Don't like taking orders," Samara snarked back, poking out a tongue. "Are uh, are you guys okay?"

Bucky gave a gentle smile. "Unlike you two, we can get in a fight and come out unscathed," he teased, reaching out to fix her hair again. It was a habit she'd picked up, and one she seemed to be rubbing onto him. "I thought we might keep one of them for questioning, but we just..." An awkward shrug. "Steve pointed out that with how much Hydra's fallen, there's nothing we really need to know anymore. I agreed it wasn't worth the risk."

Holding out a hand, Samara waited for him to pull her up, biting back a complaint when he took extreme care. "That's all nice and dandy," she allowed, reaching out to grip his shoulder. It was the only thing keeping her painfully upright. " _But_. I would love it if… if you could get me to a hospital right about now."

Bucky let out a tremendous sigh. "Wilson, is she – " Blue eyes blinked both in shock and amusement. "He's unconscious."

"He was complaining," Samara shrugged, hissing lightly at the shockwave of pain that followed. "Look, he shattered something in his leg, and then proceeded to try and run on it. He's going to be in a world of pain right now. It's better for everyone if he's not entirely aware of said agony."

The brunet hung his head, muttering something under his breath before he lifted his stare. "Steve!" he shouted over his shoulder, not breaking eye contact. "I need some help over here! And you," the words were directed her way, low and familiar, "You are going to stay conscious. I'm sorry if it hurts but it won't take long for us to get to help, and I won't have you falling asleep on me only to never wake up. Understood?"

Samara spread out both her arms, smiling softly when the man hefted her up with that same exaggerated care. "I'm not leaving you," she declared, resting her cheek against his chest and closing her eyes.

"What did I say about staying conscious?" Bucky reprimanded. "I don't care how you do it, but stay awake."

Groaning into the material, she forced her eyes back open. "But you're comfy," Samara argued, settling again and gritting her teeth against the growing agony. Adrenaline was fading, pain was a definite. She _knew_ this. "Okay, stay awake, stay awake. I can do that," she murmured, looking around and quirking a brow at the blond and the body in his arms. "Hey Buck, you don't care how I do it right?"

Bucky snorted. "I'm going to regret this, but no I don't care," he narrowed his eyes. "It won't be for long though, I promise. Stark is wiping the system, and then we're sending Coulson and SHIELD in to finish the clean-up. We'll be wheels up in twenty."

The doctor pumped up a fist. "Awesome dude," she groaned. "Okay, so you don't care how? I'm going to start at triple digits, a very good place to start."

"You're going to start _what_?"

Samara took a shallow breath in, held it for a few seconds, and then started with; " _Nine hundred and ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, nine hundred and ninety-nine bottles of beers! Take one down and pass it around, nine hundred and ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall."_

* * *

 **Hey you! I just got my first tattoo and guys…**

 **guys…**

 **guys…**

 _ **its freaking awesome as shit**_

 **Yeah, so that's all I have to say this time around. Usually I have so much I wanna add and crap, but oh well, right? There was some swearing and darkness in this chapter but it didn't last long because I'm a sarcastic little bitch and can't help but write that. Hope you liked it?**

 **Taila xx**


	37. Gunmetal Lamborghini

The simple command to remain conscious was harder to follow than she'd thought.

Samara wasn't quite sure _when_ she drifted into dreams, but they'd been over an ocean as it happened, she remembered that much. There had been an idle conversation humming in the air around her – low voices taunting with the notion of a vacation now that everything was settling – and it had calmed her nerves to the point where it all went _numb._

The pain ebbing away probably should've worried her, after all agony meant she was still alive, but by then she was too exhausted to care. There would be nightmares, and at first that thought alone had kept her awake, but after a few hours the tiredness lacing her bones made her not… _care_ as much as she should've.

But then to prove her wrong, she'd dreamt.

Her first thought was that her body had felt bad, and shown some pity – if she was living and breathing hell, then she clearly didn't deserve the same shit while she slept. It was a motion she seconded without fault. But it was about then that she'd taken note of the chest cushioning her head, then that she'd noticed the steadily beating heart serving to slow down the racing of her own. It was then she'd realised it had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with _him_.

Bucky might have been the one who demanded she stay awake, but he seemed content to soothe her until she was nothing but a puddle against his side. It didn't take much – a distracted hand carding through her hair, the occasional whisper that they were okay, and she found her mind slipping. He'd either accepted she was wincing with every breath and needed the reprieve, or he'd realised that song she was chanting was going to be the reason she never made it to the hospital in one piece. Either way, when her voice had trailed away and she leant more heavily against his side; he'd cooed gently and tucked her more firmly against him, cautious only of her injury.

It had been nice to fall asleep against him – he was warm, smelt familiar, and his touch was firm – but it wasn't nice to wake up _without_ him.

Samara groaned lightly, recognizing the sterile hint to the air and the sound of steady beeping, knowing _exactly_ where she was but still not liking the thought. There was a difference between working at a hospital on occasion and being trapped in one. Blinking hard, she pushed onto her elbows with a grunted; " _Hello?"_

"My, my, do my eyes deceive me? Sleeping beauty has awakened…"

The woman only groaned again, dropping onto her back and closing her eyes. "I hate you," she realised, letting her head loll to the side and take in the smirking genius. "I actually hate you. I'd rather be back in that hellhole facility then here next to you."

Tony cocked up a brow, slipping the tablet he'd been holding into a small knapsack beside his legs. "Not a big fan of hospitals, eh?" he asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He looked genuinely curious for her reply, but his eyes were roaming over her features, looking for anything other than exhaustion. "Can't say I am either. They smell funny, and alcohol is banned from the premises. They might has well just ban happiness."

It only took the man a few seconds to be pleased with whatever he saw, leaning back with a short nod. Had he been checking up on her?

Samara sighed, wincing as she looked around the room. "Hate them more than anything, which is ironic because on occasion, I work in one," she murmured, smiling softly at the blond sleeping beside the genius. "Hmm, taking care of your investments, Mr. Stark?"

Tony peered over at the soldier, clearing his throat. "I'm just… taking care," he evaded, gesturing to the other side of her cot with his chin. "Steve won't leave, 'cause _he_ won't leave. Figured since we're a team and all now, we might as well suffer together, you know?"

Frowning in confusion, she turned to check the other side of the room, a grin breaking out on her features at what she saw. Bucky was curled up in what should've been an oversized armchair – it was _almost_ a shame he was so broad – with one arm flung up to protect his eyes, and his legs sprawled over the side. It was fucking adorable, and she waved an arm at her companion impatiently. "Boy, you better have a camera."

Sleek metal was pressed against her open palm. "Only got my phone on me, but it should be good enough quality" Tony apologized quietly. "I did make it, after all."

Samara snorted, bringing it up to eye level and finding the camera application already open. "You're so humble," she muttered, frowning lightly as she watched the image focus on the smaller screen. The picture needed to capture everything, the drool making its way down his chin included. "I've never actually bothered to buy one of your phone designs before, sorry…" There it was, the perfect picture. "If you put out a new coffee maker though, I have this guy who puts the first one available aside for me."

The shutter closed when she prompted it too, the comical sound echoing the man's small chuckle. "See, this is why I like you," Tony decided firmly, hovering closer so he could check out the photo with a smile. "You like coffee, and you hate _falcon punch_."

"You have really low standards," Samara commented lightly. "I wanna send this to my phone, how the heck does that happen?"

"Have you tried turning it off, and then turning it back on again?"

The doctor couldn't stop the abrupt laughter from leaving her lips, but when the pain from the sudden inhale danced along her side, she almost wished she could. It was the _real_ agony, the one she'd been expecting back in that facility, and it burnt like a branding iron against her ribs. "Oh, motherfucker," she gasped, dropping the phone as she doubled over in an attempt to relieve the pressure.

There was another figure at her bedside before her whimpers had even died down, appearing so suddenly it made her heart falter in her chest. "Language," Steve scolded absently, one hand hovering uselessly like he wanted to try and help. "Are you okay?"

Samara gave a slow, hesitant nod. "Yeah, peachy, I just – ugh, I just forgot," she smiled meekly. "I am loving that bed head though."

Twin hands came up to pat down the wild locks. "Oh, stop it," the soldier muttered, shoving his fingers into his pockets with burning cheeks. "It's not bed head. It's uncomfortable plastic seat head. I haven't seen a bed since before the mission."

"Wait…" Samara pulled a face, giving an obedient laugh. "I have a collapsed lung, I wasn't in a bloody coma? You can't have been here that long,"

Steve gave a weak shrug, stretching up and managing to brush the hanging lights with his fingertips. "The doctor gave you some morphine," he started, slumping back down and now moving to touch the ground. "He told us it would knock you out for a few hours, so we decided to stay, but apparently, you were also extremely exhausted? He said that he was surprised you'd managed to stand up long enough to break the bones in the first place."

Tony was nodding in agreement. "I need to have a little chat with snowflake," he winked, eyes drifting over to the still sleeping assassin. "He obviously doesn't understand that a girl needs a break every once in a while. It's either that, or you demand more _fourteen hour_ leaves in your contact."

"Fourteen hours?" Samara openly gaped. "I can't have slept that long."

"Don't act so surprised, I sleep for longer most weekends," Tony grinned, wrinkling his nose. "But in all honestly, that's probably because I sometimes forget that sleep is something my body occasionally needs. Coffee is apparently not an adequate substitute. Like, what the f – " The genius almost choked on his words when blue eyes glared him down, painted in righteous fury. " – Fra la, la la, la, la la, la la…"

Steve quirked up a brow. "It's too early for carols," he noted smugly. "Nice try, but I'm still putting you on the naughty list."

"Oh, gross," Samara moaned, pulling a face as she watched them interact.

Whatever satisfied pride the blond felt disappeared with the comment, his cheeks burning a bright shade of red. "Oh, I didn't mean – I was meaning – you know I was just making a joke?" he stammered, blinking between the grinning bedridden woman, and the billionaire who suddenly found the floor extremely interesting. The other man could try hide all he wanted, but the facial hair didn't cover _that much_ of his own blush. "… actually, never mind," Steve deflated.

Samara grinned all the broader, watching them both fidget when the silence continued. "That's cute," she declared firmly, nodding once like it cemented the words. "Also, slightly sickening, but beggars can't be choosers. I'll get whatever cheesy romance I can – the rooms we rented never had any _Lifetime_ movies."

Tony snorted. "You watch _Lifetime_ movies?"

"Oh, like you don't."

Steve let out a tired sigh, waving a hand for silence and surprisingly getting it from them. "I'm not being paid enough to babysit you two," he warned fondly, shaking out his shoulders before glancing over at the assassin. "Tony come on, we're getting some food. I'm starving."

Tony pushed to his feet, rolling his eyes. "Starving, and lacking any subtlety," he added pointedly. "Sammy, sweetie, wake up _the frozen caveman soldier_ and have your little reunion. He was a wreck when the doctors had to kick him out so they could re-inflate your lung, and he was also a _wrecker_ when he figured out they'd stabbed you with a needle to do so. I want it noted that I hate paying for damages I didn't cause."

Samara glanced over at the snoring male, smiling softly. "I owe you one," she murmured, leaning forward and reaching out for him. Her fingertips brushed along the length of his arm, and instantly she could breathe a little easier. "Thanks."

Pulling on an oversized sweater – not oversized, just super solider sized, ugh were they sharing shirts now? – Tony gestured to the man with a nod. "He feels like shit by the way, thinks it's his fault, so try…" he shrugged awkwardly, looking once to the blond holding the door open. "I don't know, but if you could get him to eat something that would be great. The only reason he's even asleep right now is because I _might've_ drugged his coffee."

"You might've?" Samara echoed, smiling weakly.

The genius moved towards the archway. "Nothing you say will hold up in the court of law and – and come on, I did it for his own good. Hopefully he'll realise that, and _not_ punch me when he comes too," he winced, shaking away the thought with a terrified shiver. "But uh yeah, my bag should have some crap from the vending machines in it, so go nuts. Be back in ten."

The door swung shut, leaving the room in silence and she sighed, turning to study the sleeping features of the man beside her cot. Blue eyes stared right back, and she started slightly, breathing through the shock. "You son of a bitch," she hissed, slapping his wrist scoldingly. "I'm too old for that. I could have a heart attack or something."

Bucky smiled lazily, uncurling his body and standing up. "You're awake," he noted warmly, crouching beside the bed.

"So are you," Samara cocked a brow in amusement, patiently holding up a hand. The assassin didn't even blink, silver fingers linking with her own almost without permission while his free hand moved to shift her bangs. "How long have you been awake exactly? No reason, just curious you know…"

Bucky chuckled, lowering his hand to run his knuckles against her cheek. "I heard when you laughed and upset your ribs," he admitted, eyes flicking away and narrowing in annoyance. "But whatever was slipped into my drink mucked up my head. I was… I was _trying_ to wake up, but my body didn't really respond, like I was trying to fight through mud. I hope Stark is saying his last goodbyes."

Samara tried sitting up, managing it with only one small moment of discomfort. "You heard him, he was trying to help you out," she reminded him, dropping her body against his shoulder. "Give him a break."

The assassin swayed lightly, getting used to the new weight before the hand moved to pet her back. "I was planning on breaking something, yes," Bucky admitted bitterly. "Maybe the jaw? He might shut up then."

Samara sighed. "Leave him alone," she muttered, slinging one arm around his neck and tucking her nose into his shirt. It was an awkward – and slightly painful – embrace, but she wasn't ready to let go even when the seconds ticking by turned into minutes. Her body may not have forced any nightmares on her, but she'd still managed to create some without the help. "I'm sorry I fell asleep."

"I don't mind," Bucky whispered, breath a warm touch along her shoulders. "You needed it, darling, but you also need to stop moving so much. The doctors shoved a few needles in your arm, because apparently, you hadn't suffered enough. You're tugging on 'em."

That explained the pain then. "Huh, what needles?" she questioned, pulling back as slowly as she could get away with. Her eyes fell on the crook of her arm, and understanding lit up the dulled colour. "It's only a drip, silly, a saline solution to ensure I don't get dehydrated. I could probably get away with pulling it out now, because I'm awake and I really want a hug."

Bucky stopped her from yanking it out, gently catching her hand with his own. "The doctors are mad enough at me as it is," he smiled minutely, squeezing her fingers once. "If I let you undo their hard work, they'll have me thrown out."

Samara pushed out her lower lip.

The assassin didn't last more than a second, his lips parting in a sigh. "Alright fine, darling, you win," Bucky drawled, hands coming away to scoop her up. He was mindful of both the endless wires attached to her, and to the open back of her gown, his hands not straying away from the areas people would deem appropriate. "If anything hurts, I want you to tell me," he commanded absently, boosting up onto the bed. He kicked out his legs and leaned back against the pillows, draping her over his lap and then the blankets over her legs. "I don't know when the morphine's meant to fade."

"I don't know and I don't care," she allowed, humming as they both settled into the new position. He was warmer than the bed, thankfully, and even though his clothing was a little rough against her skin, his hands made up for it. "Morphine, smorphine."

Bucky gave a small sound, sketching something onto the bare skin between her shoulder blades. "You'll want it when the pain comes back."

Samara let her eyes slip closed, lips pressing against his collarbone in a short show of affection. "The pain already came back," she admitted quietly, breathing in the musty smell that lined his skin. It was more prominent than she remembered, but that probably had something to do with the fourteen hours he'd spent refusing to leave her side. "S'not too bad though, only when I move weird or take in a deep breath. It's manageable."

His sigh echoed both through the air, and through his chest, lifting her up and then letting her sink back down. "I don't want _manageable_ ," he muttered, tucking the blankets more securely around them both. "I want gone."

"Oh dude, same, you read my mind."

Bucky fell into silence for a few seconds before; "I think you need another catnap."

"Oh dude, same, you read my mind."

There was another sigh, and another few beats of silence between them. His thoughts were almost audible in their annoyance, and she smothered her smile into the material of his shirt, tasting the victory. "Please don't do this, darling," he begged, continuing to use the warm pet name. "I've already destroyed one wing of this damn hospital, I might get sued if I destroy another."

Samara tilted up her head, eyes heavy, but lips tugged into a smile. "Love you," she murmured, stretching up to kiss his chin before snuggling back into his chest. "I might have that nap… little tired…"

"I'll be here when you wake up," Bucky promised, voice a little strained. "And, uh… me too."

* * *

 _Her throat was going to go hoarse soon. It was going to give out, and take her voice with it, stealing whatever words she wanted to speak into the silent air around them. She could already feel the weakness there, burning on her tongue and sitting in her chest._

" _Seven hundred and sixty-two bottles of beer on the wall, seven hundred and sixty-two bottles of beer," she slurred tiredly, cheek pressed against the awkward material that made up her assassin's uniform. It was strangely cold, and the sensation made her teeth chatter. "Take one down and pass it around, seven hundred and sixty-one bottles of beer on the wall…"_

 _The groan that sounded stopped her from starting the next verse. "Somebody make it stop," Tony begged. "I think my ears are bleeding."_

 _Samara swallowed, wincing when it burned. "Seven hundred and sixty-one bottles of beer on the wall…" she croaked, tucking her nose into a broad shoulder. There were more words she had to add, but the thought was exhausting. "Seven hundred and sixty-one bottles of beer."_

 _Fingers carded through her hair, soothing and warm. "I don't mind it," Bucky commented softly, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I used to try and trick her into ranting just so I could hear her voice," he admitted, and absently she realised she should remember that for later. "At least this way, I'm not expected to contribute to the conversation."_

" _Take one down, and pass it around…"_

 _Tony let out a sound of frustration. "Make her stop."_

 _The chest she was leaning against rumbled in an amused chuckle. "And why would I do that?" Bucky asked, fingers slowing to instead rub at the knot forming at the base of her neck. "As I said, I like the sound of her voice. I don't want it to stop, so what's in it for me?"_

 _Samara sighed under his hand, side twitching in pain. "Seven hundred and sixty bottles of beer on the wall."_

" _I will give you anything," Tony announced, but the note of pleading was still leaking through. "I'll buy you a private island. I'll steal the declaration of independence. I'll dance in central park with my underpants on my head and not sue whoever uploads it to youtube. Anything," he stressed._

 _Bucky hummed in thought. "I'll stop her if you…" he started idly, voice mockingly slow to come. "Hmmm, Sammy baby, anything you want in the world?" The hand on her neck tugged lightly and teasingly on her hair, getting her attention. "Anything you think I should ask for? He's giving us some options here. I don't know what youtube is, but it sounds like I could use it for villainy."_

 _The doctor winced. "Lamborghini."_

 _The hand pet down her back soothingly. "You're so smart," Bucky cooed, milking it for all it was worth. "I want a Lamborghini."_

 _Tony snorted. "Do you even know what a Lamborghini is?" he mocked, something whirling to life as he struggled to fix the damages to his suit. If it wasn't broken, she didn't doubt he'd be hiding in it with the music on blast._

" _No," Bucky shrugged. "Samara, darling…"_

 _The brunette was smart enough to take the hint, and with a heaving breath, one that sent pain through her side, she started up again. "Seven hundred and sixty bottles of beer on the wall, seven hundred and sixty bottles of beer…" she whispered. "Get a metallic silver one, like the colour of gunmetal."_

 _Bucky's shit eating grin could be heard. "You heard the lady, Stark," he announced cheerfully. "Lamborghini, a nice metallic gunmetal. It's either that or she takes down the next seven hundred and sixty bottles of beer. I might even help her out. Sounds like hard work."_

" _Oh my – Fine!" Stark cried, slumping back with a solid thunk. "I'll bloody order it right now."_

 _Over the sounds of the irritated phone call, Bucky whispered in her ear, telling her it was okay to fall asleep, that he'd still be there when she woke up. The words were echoed by warmth surrounding her, his other hand coming to tuck her closer to his side while silver danced down her spine again. The light touch felt like a feather, but it still managed to overcome the pain in her side._

 _It was nice getting to drink him in without worry shadowing some of the happiness. They'd won, and they were going home. There was nothing left to take him away from her, and nothing left to take her away from him._

"… _surprised you didn't want the island."_

 _The small chuckle was familiar. "I could use an island right now," Natasha whispered. "A beach, maybe some drinks. Sounds good."_

 _Bucky was next to say his thoughts on the matter. "I don't remember what the beach is like," he admitted, careful to keep his voice low as well. It wasn't only for her sake, but also for birdbrains. He was still knocked out and snoring across from them. "I don't remember too much actually. But I know I wouldn't mind disappearing to some private island for a little while either. The fresh air will do us all good."_

 _Tony's voice had already fallen from the ranks of irritated. "Yeah, I think so too," he murmured. "Excuse me, I'm gonna make another phone call."_

* * *

It was the tugging on her arm that woke her up, someone pulling the needle away from her skin with nothing more than a small sting. It itched but she didn't bother to do anything more than take her arm back, hiding it between her body and the one beneath her own. There was a small sound of surprised, and again, fingers closed around her elbow – the only part they could reach – and tried to pull out her arm.

Samara made an irritated sound. "No touchy," she whispered, yawning into the nearest patch of bare skin. "I charge three hundred an hour."

The warm chuckle that sounded was ringing with approval. "I think that's your cue to leave doc," Bucky drawled, the arm slung over her waist tightening a fraction. It was a silent warning, and she wondered if anyone else saw the possessive action. "She's got a stubborn streak a mile wide. You won't be getting that arm back any time soon, I promise you that."

There was a sharp exhale, like a parent trying not to yell at their young child, before soft soled shoes stormed across the hard floor. "I'll be back for the discharge papers," the man decided, and with a squeak of his sneakers, he was gone.

A hand drifted through her hair, messing up the locks before dutifully straightening them out once again. "You charge a lot for so little," Bucky snorted, tugging on her bangs. "I don't think anybody could afford you. Let alone that poor bastard."

"You'll be surprised," she murmured back, scrunching up her features. "Doctor's make a fortune."

"And apparently so do you."

Samara managed to open her eyes, smiling up at the man she was still using as a mattress. Their position hadn't changed much she'd fallen asleep, but she was settled comfortably between his legs now, chin resting on his chest right above his heart. That explained why she had slept so soundly then. "Did I hear the word discharge," she mentioned, trying to sit up without success. "Ugh, did I also hear the words you'll carry me out?"

Bucky supported her carefully, making sure the blanket stayed around her shoulders. "Yes to the first, no to the second," he answered, smiling lightly when she snorted. "Well, it could be a yes to the second. But we'd need to discuss business."

"You get fifty percent off my hourly fee?" Samara offered, leaning heavily against him. Her body wasn't cooperating as well as she'd hoped it would, the limbs a shaking mess and her side starting to scream in protest. "Take it or leave it, snowflake, I've got places to be."

Bucky swung his legs over the side, taking her entire body with him in one swift movement. "Only place you're going is to bed," he announced firmly, lifting her gown back over her shoulder. Just to spite him, she wiggled until it fell back down, shooting him a dark look as she did so. "Natasha, how are the discharge papers coming along? The sooner we get out of here the better. I think she's getting grumpy."

The red head – where had she even come from? – was tapping a pen against her cheek. "Do we agree to bed rest for the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours?"

Their answers were simultaneous, ringing out at the same time. The clear disagreement, the conflicting _"Yes,"_ and _"No,"_ announcement made the others in the room – okay and where had _they_ come from? – snort out in amusement.

Bucky slowly tilted her chin to face him, his brows high. "No?" he echoed, lips pursed to show his disapproval. "Okay, darling, out of the two of us, who's the trained assassin that weighs about two hundred pounds and is capable of sitting on the other until they give in and stay in bed?"

The words only made her roll her eyes. "And out of the two of us, who can actually make food that's edible and safe for human consumption?"

Bucky blinked. "Yeah, she wins."

Natasha smiled warmly, circled an option neither of them saw, and then shut the file. "Okay then," she declared, pushing to her feet. "I'll get this to the doctor, you get the troublemaker and her twin brother to the plane. If I have to spend another minute here, _somebody_ is going to be shelling out a lot more to cover the damages. I've always wondered what happens when you use those defibrillators on a living person."

"Please leave," Tony groaned, head tipping back and – for fucks sake, where were these people coming from? When the red head had disappeared around the corner, the billionaire perked up again. "I thought _tweety bird_ was getting a ride back with his girlfriend?"

Samara chuckled. "I thought we'd established she doesn't exist?"

Tony almost fell over in his excitement, both hands coming up and grabbing her attention. "I have some terrible news," he rushed out, shaking his head and taking a calming breath in through his nose. "It's true, he's roped some poor soul into dating him. But you wanna know the worst part?"

The doctor feigned terror, widening her eyes. "W-what?"

" _She's attractive!"_

Dramatically throwing her weight to the side, forcing the brunet beneath her to catch her by the waist, she howled. "Oh, god no! That poor girl," she cried, both hands pressing to her cheeks and eyes still wide. When she turned the horrified look on Bucky, he rolled his eyes and let out a small sigh. "We need to save her soul, but how? He'll never let her go…"

Tony slumped back. "What are we going to do? It gets worse too… she's…" he shuddered. "She's _committed_."

"Ew, who even does that?" Samara wrinkled her nose. "Commitment is gross."

Bucky cleared his throat.

Gold eyes flickered his way, taking in the amused but also irritated gleam to the shade of blue. "Well, uh, it's only gross when it's not meant to be, you know? Like when it's not a good match?" she tried, resting her cheek against his shoulder. His unimpressed sigh made her sneak closer, a kiss pressed to his pulse point. "Personally, I think commitment is only gross when it's not _you_. You're not gross. I love you please don't hate me."

He chuckled warmly, shaking his head and brushing his lips against her temple. "I know darling," he allowed. "Me too."

Tony tuttered. "That's not how you pronounce _I love you too._ "

Bucky glared across the room, grip on her waist tightening until she could've sworn she _felt_ the bruises blooming. "Hey," she whispered, tugging once on his shirt in a bid for attention. His lips twitched, irritation working at the smooth lines of his face but he didn't give her his eyes. They remained glued to the man currently sweating buckets. "Hey, he's only teasing. Remember what I said."

"You told me to give him a break," Bucky rumbled, nodding like a child repeating a lesson. His fingers went from gripping to tapping, making a beat she didn't recognize against her skin. "He's only trying to help."

Samara gave his cheek a praising pat. "Good boy. Remember that if you kill him, he can't buy you your Lamborghini."

Tony waved a hand their way, humming in agreement. "Yeah, see, see, don't…" Another vague hand wave. "Don't kill me, you'll regret it. Ah, did you hear that? Natasha needs some help. I'll uh, be right back. You guys stay here, and don't entertain any homicidal tendencies while I'm gone."

The genius swept from the room, leaving the rest of them staring after his body in shock. "He's a weird one," Samara commented dryly, already losing interest and instead trying to focus on placing both feet on the ground. Her muscles trembled a little, unsettled by the weight, and she reminded herself to move slow. It had been clean over fourteen hours since she'd used them last. "I like him."

Bucky lowered her to the ground, standing directly behind her as he helped her shift her weight. "I know, darling," he nodded. "I like him too. He's blunt and honest. Don't see that much nowadays, do we?"

Blond hair gleamed as the man looked between them both. "I'll get her clothing," Steve murmured, moving to leave the room.

"Bucky, honey," she started, watching the door swing shut again. "Are we scaring people away?"

The assassin only spared the empty room an appraising look, shrugging once he'd noticed they were alone. He was more focused on helping her put one foot in front of the other, one hand straying to her back to hold the folds of her gown together. _Reasons she hated hospitals number eight three; the dress code –_ because if you weren't dressed in those godawful scrubs, or cliché white coats, then you were forced to wear small slips of material that barely covered your backside. It was another form of torture.

Bucky whispered encouragement as she got feeling back, supporting her small trek from one side of the room to the other with a hand on her waist. His smile faded sometimes, mostly when she lost her balance and caused pain to bloom, but it never fully disappeared.

Samara swatted his hands away, trying to prove she could stand on her own. "Don't be a drama queen," she scolded gently, taking in the worried way he watched her balance. "It was only pins and needles. Legs aren't happy I haven't been using them."

"Are you okay?"

The question gave her pause, eyes shuttering. "Sweetheart?" she canted her head to the side, reaching out for him again. "Yeah, I'm fine. It'll take a few weeks for the ribs to heal, but other than that, I'll be fine. Promise. You trust me, don't you?"

Bucky flinched, looking down to his hands, almost like he weighing out the flesh against the silver. "I trust you," he smiled weakly, swallowing down whatever he was going to add. "I just… I don't trust myself, Sammy. I shouldn't have let you come in, I should've fought more, I should've just said no when you asked but…"

"But if I hadn't come in, I don't think Falcon would've made it."

The assassin shook his head. "I don't give a shit about him, I don't," he announced bitterly. "I tried to blame _him_ for this, tried to tell myself that because he was weak, you needed to step in but…" Silver fingers tore through his hair, mussing it up as he struggled to catch his breath. "But I was weak, and – and fuck, you could've _died_ , Sammy, and it would've been my fault. Not his, mine."

Samara's chest shuddered. "That…" she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. "If I died, if… It wouldn't have been your fault. Gorgeous, _no,_ it would've been my fault if anything. I'm too damn stubborn remember?"

"Do you know why I let you come?" Bucky asked, voice void of any emotion. He was staring across the room, apparently finding great interest in the closed blinds blocking out the light. "Do you know why I let you come into the facility with us?"

She didn't want the answer, she didn't want the answer, she didn't want – "Why?"

Blue eyes flickered her way, catching her own for a split second before hitting the ground. "I wasn't sure about our odds, I honestly… I honestly thought there was a small chance we were gonna make it out alive. I knew that if we didn't survive, soon they'd find their way out and you'd be dead too. I just – I decided that if I was going to die, I was…" Bucky turned to face her now, chin angled up in defiance. "I decided that if I died, I took you with me."

"I don't…" Samara closed her eyes against the headache blooming behind her eyes. This was her assassin, it didn't mean what she thought. "You wanted me to die with you? Because you knew that if you died, it was most likely I would too?"

His eyes lightened slightly. "You understand?"

Samara started laughing, first a little breathily and then a little hysterically. "Oh god, if that's how you show love, I'm totally screwed," she teased, moving forward to shove his shoulder lightly before bringing him in for a proper hug. "Yes, I understand. You figured that if you died, I'd have what? A few more minutes to live? Don't be so bothered, honey, I'd do the same. If I go down, damn straight you're coming with me."

Bucky cupped her cheeks, searching her eyes for something. "You're too much like me," he whispered, darting forward to crush his lips against her own.

The contact was demanding and took most, if not all, of the strength she had left but she let him push her back until she hit the wall. It was cold against her shoulder blades, sending shivers down her spine, but he was burning her everywhere else. Like a hot bath on a cold evening, where you'd struggle to keep beneath the water to stop yourself from freezing.

When he pulled back, lips bruised, she gave him a breathy smile. "I love you."

Bucky chuckled. "I love you too, darling."

* * *

 **Okay… One more chapter. I can't believe this, but** _ **one more chapter.**_ **After that, we're finished? I'm not ready.**

 **Good thing I have a backup plan, right? Oh yeah, oh yeah honey's I ain't leaving this alone. It's not what you think – as of now, I have no desire to write a sequel, because I don't wanna stretch their story out too thin – but I am planning on starting a one-shot collection. Those one shots will include many a things you guys have asked for – as well as things like… say… the other movies?**

 **So even though this story is almost over – they're not :) I can't wait to write them more.**

 **Taila xx**


	38. Driving off into the sunset

Bucky gave a limp shrug, resisting the urge to play with the cooking batter in the pan. "I uh, I really don't know what to tell you," he admitted, checking the open recipe book beside him periodically. "Sammy, she – she started as the hostage and by the end of the first week, I guess we'd traded places? I couldn't leave her if I wanted too, and believe me… believe me I wanted too."

Behind him, the scratching of graphite stilled. "This is starting to sound familiar? Actually, yeah, I'm pretty sure I've _read_ this somewhere," Steve chuckled warmly, giving him an absent smile and an equally as absent answer. "You ever heard of fanfiction? Tony introduced me to it. Scary."

The words went clear over the assassin's head. "Fan – _fanfiction?"_

Steve was staring down his sketch, canting his head side to side and apparently not even listening. "It sounds rather sweet to me," he murmured, using his thumb to smudge some shadows into his work. "Buck, you were never a simple guy – so a simple dame wasn't gonna cut it. It uh, it actually used to annoy me, back then, when you'd go out for a night and come back looking defeated. You had everyone falling over you, but you never _wanted_ any of them. I never understood how you could be so picky."

Flipping the pancake – _cook until both sides are golden brown –_ the assassin only took a careful breath in, tasting cinnamon on his tongue. "They were all the same, each and every one of them," he muttered, frowning at the stove. The memories were faded, sitting behind his eyes, but he could remember frustration. "It was like someone had come through our neighbourhood with a cookie cutter."

"Wait, so you _remember?"_ Steve snorted, peering up to give him a bland look through his lashes. "Figures. You don't remember making me ride the cyclone that one time, but you remember your countless dates."

Bucky twitched. "Shut it up or shut it down, punk."

Steve gave him a lopsided smile, going back to his sketch with a quietly familiar hum. "I'm shutting up, I'm shutting up…" he muttered, giving a mocking salute when the man turned his back. He was only lucky the assassin missed the action. "Hey, can you pass me the blueberries? If I don't get a handful now, Tony will make sure I never do. He's got something of an obsession with them."

The bowl was whisked away, and the brunet snarled without heat. "You do not touch the berries. You do not touch what leaves the skillet. You do not touch _anything_ ," Bucky commanded, pointing a dirtied spoon between blue eyes. "Samara likes blueberries and raspberries on her buttermilk pancakes but I've never seen her use syrups, so I'm not going to bother with any. If you're hungry, you can have some maple…" he muttered, checking the bottom of the pancake to make sure it wasn't burnt. "Or pop-tarts? I don't know what they are, but your cupboards are pretty packed with them."

Steve chuckled again, following the train of words as easily as the assassin followed the ramblings of his doctor. "Oh, this is for her? What did you do?" he asked, propping up his chin in his hands. "You're kissing more ass than usual so it must be bad. You didn't say she looked fat, did you? I should warn you – when they ask, it's usually a trap."

Bucky frowned, hiding the eyeroll. "I didn't _do_ anything," he grumbled, leaning against the counter and idly watching the batter cook. "Samara didn't sleep too well and – and since when do you use the word 'ass'? Last time you absolutely _had_ to refer to someone's backside, you called it their gluteus?"

"You don't remember what we used to do every weekend, but you remember what I used to call people's backsides," the soldier murmured through his teeth, pleased expression fading into annoyance. It was satisfying to watch the symbol of their great nation pout. "You know what I should do? Crash another plane into another icy ocean, and pray I'm not found this time around."

Bucky pulled the pan away from the hot plate, admiring the warm colour of the breakfast he'd made. She was going to love it. "Saturday I'd stay at yours, usually on the couch or in our blanket fort, and then Sunday you'd make pancakes and read out the jokes in the newspaper."

Steve faltered, features shuttering. "You _do_ remember what we use to do every weekend?"

Bucky didn't answer, instead only neatly stacking the pancakes; surrounding them in berries and admiring the colours again. "We need to make another one of those," he mused absently, next moving to try and figure out the coffee machine. "I miss _Fort Spangles."_

"I miss the days when you didn't call it that," Steve muttered sourly, shoulders hunching up. "I thought we called it something painfully childish? We came up with the name when we were what, twelve? You don't get to change that because I started wearing spandex. That's not in the rule book."

Bucky shoved a cup under the nozzle and glared over his shoulder. "I don't have to follow your rules _._ You used to giggle every time we played soldiers because you'd get to say – _Roger that, Barnes._ Twelve or not, there is no excuse."

The blue eyes glared back with such a familiar wave of righteous fury, and the sight made his heart ache a little. He was aware the man had changed a lot, losing the health problems and gaining strength in return, but there were still hints of that little blond boy he'd met in a back alley – the same innocently perfect kid that had been trying to fight men ten times his size with nothing but determination and bruised hands.

The memory still served to make him smile, the constant knot of frustration in his chest loosening. What would his life had been if he hadn't investigated the sound of a shout that early afternoon? If he hadn't turned a corner and seen three men cornering what he'd thought was a dangerously young child, hands fisted around a leather wallet and knuckles bloodied.

Bucky wouldn't be here, cooking pancakes on an electric stove, for one. He never would've escaped that facility and its experiments back in the war – but then again, would he have even joined the fight? Steve _had_ been his reasoning for enlisting.

"It's a little strange," he thought aloud, silver wrapped around white ceramic and leeching its warmth. The dark surface of the liquid held his attention, and absently he realised this was the first time he'd spoken without being prompted by another. "But I'm happy they found me – Hydra, I mean. If they hadn't, I would've bled to death and – and you'd be alone right now, dealing with this shit on your own."

Steve was quiet behind him, mouth opening and closing without managing words.

Bucky turned to give him a weak smile, gently placing the cup beside the arranged plate. "See why I said strange?" he chuckled awkwardly, the sound aborted when blue eyes took on a hurt sheen. "I'm happy they found me, because it means I survived, you know?"

The attractive features of his best friend were still hurt, confusion now holding the gaping maw of his lips. "Bucky, I don't…" he tried, shaking his head and straightening out the slump to his shoulders. "I don't understand. I don't _know._ "

"It's just…" Bucky resorted to toying with the napkins. "I would be dead right now. I would've died young, and that… that would've _sucked_. I always looked forward to the future, to the family I would've had, to the life I would've lived," he murmured, wincing slightly when he next swallowed. "I understand that what did happen – the brainwashing, the assassinations – it wasn't _good_ , but it was better than death, wasn't it? Because now, I can found out what I could've had and I just, I _want_ normal and I want – " A quick head shake ended the thought. "Don't worry. Anyway, does that make more sense to you?"

Steve gave a slow nod. "Yeah, and um, I'm glad too, as weird as that is to say," he grimaced, fiddling with the pencil in his hands. "I thought you were dead, and that – that _broke_ me, and I hate that I couldn't protect you from them but…"

Bucky cleared his throat. "But you can protect me now. Which is odd, I'm so used to protecting _your_ frail ass."

"Hey," Steve protested weakly, eyes shining with something nether of them acknowledged. They pretended he never wiped at the corner of the big blues either, only focusing on the feigned argument at hand. "Even when I was sick, I'm pretty sure I managed to land a hit every now and then."

"I'm pretty sure I managed to hit more though," Bucky pointed out, resting his arms against his chest. The scolding look he sent the blond was so at home on his features, he didn't bother to question it. It felt right to feel annoyance at the gut instinct and damn attitude that punk had. "Luckily though, I never had to face someone who was bigger than me. If I did, then sorry but you would've been on your own."

The teary eyes were replaced with a signature unimpressed glance. "Everyone was bigger than me, and I never gave up," Steve pointed out.

Bucky snorted. "I know, it's what used to make me so pissed at you. Know when to quit, Rogers."

Steve watched him for a few seconds, hands clenching and unclenching as they rested haphazardly on the sketchbook between them. The page it was open to held an unfinished drawing, some lines ending abruptly while others seemed out of place, and blue eyes dropped to stare uselessly. "It's good to have you back," he whispered, clearing his throat before drawing absent shadows.

From where he was, the sketch seemed to resemble a familiar genius. "I'm not back completely," Bucky defended, perking up when the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. "Still missing a few bits and pieces."

"It's better than nothing," Steve shrugged, catching the incoming company too and schooling his features. "I missed you."

It felt awkward to return the sentiment, but he tried, head dipping in a nod. "Missed you too, punk," he allowed quietly, watching the door swing open silently and let two bodies through. It was almost startling to realise that he wasn't lying. He remembered their friendship enough to miss it, and the thought made his chest loosen from the tight knot it had curled into.

He was becoming _Bucky_ again.

The small moment of panicked happiness was broken by an amused laugh, the sound familiar enough to snap him out of it and catch his attention. Right. There were other people in the tower – people who mattered to him. Blinking to clear his mind, he looked up and cracked a smile.

The twin brunettes that smiled back oozed confidence, looking every bit like they owned the damn place – which he supposed one of them technically did – and every bit like they had something hidden up their sleeve. If it hadn't been for the dark circles under knowing eyes and the tired edge to their smiles, he would've called them dangerous – but as it was, he only found them adorably threatening. Like a kitten, decked out with sharp teeth and claws, but defenceless when you got out of reach.

The thought gave him pause. Stark _did_ seem like a pleased feline at times, and he knew from experience that his doctor adored having her hair petted, always arching into the touch and complaining when he stopped…

Maybe he was onto something here?

Yet again, his train of thought was thrown askew by the others, this time by twin arms snaking their way around his waist. "Hey you," the woman greeted, smile smothered against his borrowed shirt. "Did you miss me? Duh, right? If I was you I would've as – are those pancakes?"

Bucky didn't bother hiding either the chuckle or the pleased grin. "Hello to you too, darling," he drawled, resisting the urge to squeeze damage ribs and instead pressing a kiss to her brow. After pulling back, he gestured casually to the filled plate. "What? Oh, these old things? They're just something I threw together…"

Samara's smiled widened. "If you made them then why isn't the kitchen on fire?"

"I made them, thank you very much," Bucky growled, reaching out to mess up the perfect curl to her bangs. It earnt him an indignant squawk, and a weak hit to the centre of his chest that barely caused a sting of pain. Blinking at where she'd hit, he let out a snort. "I _am_ capable of playing housewife if I have too, you know. Someone had to take care of mister nobility over there."

Steve – admittedly distracted by the other person in the room – took a few seconds to catch the comment. "Hey, I was the one who'd cook," he pointed out smartly, folding his arms against his chest. "The most you ever did was make a blanket fort."

"I put a roof over your head, and you have the audacity to complain?" Bucky feigned a disappointed sigh, shaking his head at the other man.

Samara was watching the exchange with impatience amusement, eyes clearly pleased at their relationship but hands already pointing to the untouched plate. "This is sweet and all – besties reunited, yay – but do I get the damn pancakes or not?" she demanded, shooting them a bored look before her fingers inched closer. "Because I'm about three seconds from stealing them and going on the run."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I made them for you, genius," he muttered, shoving the plate closer and admiring the way her eyes lit up. Instantly, her hands had scooped up the cutlery, a berry already sneaking past her lips. "Oh? Hours of toiling labour and I don't even get a thank you?"

The doctor faltered. "Thanks," she murmured, pressing her lips against his cheek in a wet kiss. "And what's this about hours?"

Steve was the one who answered the mumbled question, his features warmed in laughter and hand hiding his smile. "It took him a while to find the recipe books we have stashed around in case of emergencies, and even longer to find where everything he needed was," he admitted, snorting into his hand before covering it with a cough. "That darn kitchen, a labyrinth, I swear…"

Tony finally spoke up, dipping his head in acknowledgement. "Thank you, thank you, it took a lot of thought," he gushed, winking once. "I figure, if your kitchen is more trouble than it's worth, people won't invite themselves into it. Better yet, they won't eat all your food."

"It didn't stop me?" Bucky shrugged. "Your logic is faulty."

"My _logic_ didn't factor in pig-headed stubbornness," Tony corrected smoothly, his next movements so quick no one managed to stop him. It seemed that one second he was reclining beside the super soldier, and the next he'd stolen the prepared cup of coffee from the counter. "Oh god," he coughed, hitting his chest after only one gulping mouthful. "Who made that? Satan?"

Bucky wasn't even mad, his smile smug. "I made that," he allowed, sighing happily when the man's face went red. "What's the matter, Stark? Can't you handle a little bitterness? That doesn't seem like you."

Tony only pulled a face, continuing to hit the centre of his chest as though he was trying to get his heart started again. "Samara, honey, if _that's_ how you have your coffee, you must be suicidal," he decided, now rubbing the abused skin with a wince. "Don't worry, it'll be okay, just hold on and we'll get you help – or sugar, we'll get you sugar."

"Or, you could get your own damn coffee," Samara offered dryly, primly taking a delicate sip from the cup and closing her eyes. "Buck, it's perfect."

Tony stared with a horrified look in his eyes, lips curled up to show his displeasure. "Perfect? _Perfect?_ It tastes like ass. How did you manage to make coffee – the damn liquid of the gods – taste like ass? Is that your superpower?"

The doctor gave an uninterested shrug, content with the breakfast. "I don't like it with all that crap," she wrinkled her nose, free hand gesturing between them in disgust. "All that cream, cinnamon, chocolate, caramel – it's a waste. I think coffee is meant to be bitter and dark, something I can drink on a diet without fretting. It's not meant to have all that…" Her brow came together as she struggled for words. "Help me out here?"

"It's not meant to have all that…" Tony blinked, searching for words before; _"Decadence?"_

At the simple word, the room went quiet, the present company feeling confusion weigh down their brows.

"I feel like that was an odd word choice," Bucky murmured suddenly, breaking the silence with an uneven shrug. Whatever stupor had come over them was broken in a similar way the silence was, and everyone went back to pottering around. "But I also feel like I'm missing something?"

Samara gave him a placating smile. "Inside joke," she soothed, giving the others the same curve of her lips.

Bucky eyed her, blue narrowed into curious slits. "Hmm," he allowed, folding his arms against his chest. The woman only continued to calmly eat the food he'd prepared, happily bouncing on the spot, and it broke his resistance. "Okay, sure, I'll let you have that then. But what has you and Stark looking so suspicious? Don't think I didn't notice the _criminal mastermind_ smiles."

Samara swallowed, waving her dirtied fork across the counter. "I have no clue what you're talking about," she grinned, still wiggling like an excited puppy. "And by that I mean, I'm eating so ask him."

Bucky's raised brow was directed to the other man. "Stark?"

"Okay, one, we've _talked_ about this. It's Tony. Toe-knee. It just slips from the tongue with no effort. Unless you count manners being too much work, then yeah, there's effort," the billionaire started, hands gesturing to his lips before shooting to point accusingly at gold eyes. "And _two_ , ew, are you trying to pin this on me, teen wolf? You traitor. See if I ever do anything nice for you again."

Samara quirked up a content brow, lips brimming with pancakes. "F'k 'ou," she slurred, not bothering to do anything more than shove another forkful past her lips. The teeth baring smile was just the cherry on the cake.

Tony didn't seem to agree. "Oh gross, close your mouth."

In response, the woman dropped the pretence of smiling and just let her lips drop open.

"Okay, okay, you win, god," Tony declared, hands flung up to protect his eyes. "Just put the pancakes away. I'll tell them everything, I swear."

Samara smiled, lips smacking together again and a pleased look overcoming her features at the victory. The assassin only smothered a chuckle and shook his head, pleased with her ruthlessness. This was why he liked her as much as she did - the damn woman took no prisoners.

Tony peeked through his fingers, tugging on his shirt to gain back a semblance of his dignity. "You two are a dangerous pair," he commented lightly, fixing his hair next. "Teaching each other bad habits and the like. Anyway, the plan _I thought we weren't telling them about yet_ – " the words were pointed, but only earned a snort from the woman – "Was to hit a beach in the next couple of months or so. Get in a vacation before the media shitstorm manages to drown us all in paperwork and press conferences."

Steve, who had been content to listen to them argue, managed a frown. "We're gonna have a problem with the media?" he questioned, leaning forward and giving them his full attention. "Siberia, or Buck?"

"Most likely Bucky," Tony shrugged. "Natty, bless her heart, put all the files onto the internet remember? Someone is bound to know who he is."

Whatever elation he was riding on failed, crashing down hard at the news. Once again, his past was catching up. Bucky sighed, running a hand over his head and messing up the simple wave to his hair. "I don't want to cause any problems," he muttered, shifting his weight. "If it's easier for me to cut ties, or cease involvement then I can always – "

"What?" Tony snorted, sending him a strange look and preparing a sweeter cup of coffee. "We're not _firing_ you. I mean yeah, you can be an asshole, but you're not all bad – and without the red book of secrets, you're not a threat. If anyone asks, we can tell him the soldier is dead and that we managed to find the sergeant again. If they kick up a fuss, we'll kill 'em."

Samara choked on her breakfast,

Tony hid his pleased smirk in the rim of his cup. "You're on the team now, Bucko. Get used to it," he announced. "Now, about that beach…"

* * *

Bucky blinked.

Then, for the heck of it, he blinked again.

"That's what a…" the assassin paused, shifted his weight, then tried again. "That's what a Lamborghini is?"

Beside him, the woman seemed to mimic his curious look, her head cocked to one side and lips pursed. "It's not even that awesome looking," she realised sadly, giving him a glance that was neither awed nor disappointed. "I hear people talking about them all the time, but I never really cared enough to look them up and see with my own eyes. I feel exactly like I did in Buffalo."

"Niagara Falls?" Bucky guessed lamely. "Yeah, same here actually. I feel like the only reason I'm impressed is because I'm meant to be," he snorted, folding his arms and studying the shining metal.

There was the sharp clattering of keys behind them both. "You could be impressed because it cost more than what the good doctor earns in a year," Tony rolled his eyes, throwing the small metal keyring towards the assassin. "There we are. Go nuts. But be home before six – we're ordering take out. I think it's time we introduced our men out of time to the best movie in the world."

Samara brightened up a little. "Oh?"

Tony nodded firmly. "I figure they need to see it before we go to the beach," he murmured, amusement poorly hidden. _"Jaws_."

"You're a terrible human being," the woman realised, not even shocked as she turned to give the man a disapproving look. His grin was unrepentant and she shook her head, giving a small laugh. "But you're also a bloody genius – why didn't I think of that?"

The billionaire winked, moving to go back indoors and no doubt moon over his own super soldier for a while. "Play safe kids," he drawled, waving over his shoulder before disappearing through the glass doors of the tower. The crowded streets of the big city didn't seem like the best place to _play_ around with such an expensive car, but he'd insisted on it, so why the hell not? He could probably talk his way out of any legal fines…

Samara chucked louder now, moving forward to brush a hand over the paint. "It's still rather pretty," she allowed. "I mean, we basically got it free of charge and as he said, they're expensive. I'm surprised he actually brought one."

Bucky cracked a small smile. "He was desperate for you to shut up," he revealed. "I think if I'd asked for a kidney, I would've got it."

The woman grinned, wrinkling her nose before the expression faltered. "Hey, there's something in the front seat," she pointed out, pinching the keys from his hand and unlocking the doors. Peering in, now without shaded glass in the way, she could make out the large box and the label smattered across the front of it. The snort was pure amusement and disbelief. "Oh my god."

"Do I want to know what it is?"

Samara straightened up. "Hell yeah you do," she promised, gesturing for him to look too. He bent at the waist, doubling over to peek through the low opening when her voice sounded above him. "A giant box of hot chocolate."

Bucky was the one to chuckle. "My god, I've seen heaven…" he teased, brushing his hair away from his eyes and looking over the street. "I don't really want to drive it, not until I've gotten a better handle on the newer cars. You feel up to it?"

Samara was already in the driver's seat. "Okay! Get in loser, we're going shopping."

The pop culture reference was another one he didn't understand, but instead of feeling frustration, he made the absent promise to watch whatever it originated from with the woman. "Mind moving the damn hot chocolate then?" he asked, cocking a brow and waiting.

"No. It's more important. You can sit in the back."

Bucky wanted to argue, really he did, but he realised that revenge would be easier to get if he was behind the woman. He wasn't one for petty acts, but hitting the back of her chair as she drove seemed like a good thing to do. "Alright," he allowed slowly, waiting for the door to open up the back seat for him. It slid up in a smooth movement, and he admired it idly before dropping his weight against the leather.

He could only see the edge of her eyes, nothing more than a flash of long lashes and smiling gold. "You ready? Once we get out of the city, I'm gonna break a few laws. As an _Avenger_ , think you can handle it?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Shut up and drive, you beautiful idiot."

Samara grinned, starting the car with a rolling purr and pulling out of the parking spot with ease. The sound of the engine wasn't really something he usually admired, but the sound of her laughing – sheer joy making it more breathless and genuine than he often got – was something he did. He'd convince her to let him sit beside her by the time they got out of the city. He wanted to see her without leather in the way.

Speaking of…

Bucky grunted, awkwardly shifting in the cramped space. "Hey, Samara?" he started, leaning closer to get her attention. "Could you move your seat up?"

* * *

 **Okay, so last week I couldn't update for multiple reasons – the main one being** _ **I don't want this story to end.**_ **The second was I had a concussion but that's not important. This would've been up earlier, but I had a doctor's appointment so sorry for the tardiness.**

 **This is it. We're done! I want to thank you all for reading this, and supporting me during the writing phase. As I've said, I won't be writing a sequel, but I will be writing a series of oneshots because I love these two too much to leave them with their happy ending. If you have anything you'd like to see, send me a message or leave a review! I will try my damnest to write every one of them, if they fit what I want for them of course.**

 **Again, thank you so much.**

 **Taila xx**


	39. Teaser!

**Hey, you guys!**

 **It's me, I'm back and I'm here to promote my next story! *shameless self-promotion is shameless* I posted the first chapter of those beautiful one-shots – and yes, they are beautiful, I told you I was going to be shameless, what were you expecting? – and will continue to post more. I have so many in the works, and so many I can't wait to write.**

 **Anyway, if you're interested, you can find them at -** _ **Assassin Isn't A Verb**_

 **Also, still am and probably always will be taking prompts for said one shot series. Anything you wanna see? Either private message me or leave a review, and I will get around to it :)**

 **Taila xx**


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